


Of Quirks, Dwarves, One For All and Arkenstone

by Argeus_the_Paladin



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: Gen, Kimi no Na wa AU, Minor tinkering with timeline, Quirks work exactly as they are meant to, Scholar Deku, dad!bilbo, pairings under very serious consideration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 02:30:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 166,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14486850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argeus_the_Paladin/pseuds/Argeus_the_Paladin
Summary: Bilbo Baggins, gentle-hobbit of Hobbiton-across-the-Water, and Midoriya Izuku, quirkless kid in a world where most people have superpowers, woke up in each other's figurative shoes one fine morning.The two worlds would never be the same.





	1. Baggins Bilbo-san and his Mister Izuku Midoriya

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost, some initial disclaimers/general notice:
> 
> 1) First thing first: All disclaimers apply. The Hobbit, The Silmarillion and all related work were the property of The Good Professor and presently belongs to The Tolkien Estate. Boku no Hero Academia belongs to the ingenious Kohei Horikoshi - may he always live up to the motto of the academy of his own making!
> 
> 2) Fanboy declaration: While, to borrow a famous hobbit's turn of phrase, I have unfortunately read less than half as much as I would have liked and of these works liked less than half as much of all protagonists less than they are meant to be, the moment I got to read BnHA and got acquainted to a certain Midoriya Izuku I knew I'd met the one of, if not the, most awe-inspiring (and inspiring period!) character I've ever known. There is perhaps little I can do to Deku's character that has not been done before and better, but I'd like to at least try.
> 
> 3) A few notes on language and timeline:  
> \- Names are written in the Japanese order in scenes where Deku is the viewpoint character (so "Baggins Bilbo", "Sackville-Baggins Lobelia", "Gamgee Hamfast"), in the Western order in scenes where Bilbo is the viewpoint character (so "Izuku Midoriya", "Katsuki Bakugou", "Shouto Todoroki"), and in their 'correct' respective order in scenes taken over by the omniscient narrator.  
> \- The deaths of Bungo and Belladonna Baggins are moved back by five years each, so Bungo passed away in T.A. 2921 and Belladonna in T.A. 2929. The births of Hamfast Gamgee and his wife are similarly moved back, to T.A. 2916.
> 
> 4) This story is now available on SpaceBattles: https://forums.spacebattles.com/threads/of-quirks-dwarves-one-for-all-and-arkenstone-the-hobbit-my-hero-academia.646562/
> 
> With no further ado, do enjoy your stay here - I do hope you'll enjoy reading my work as I have writing it.

**CHAPTER 0**

**BAGGINS BILBO-SAN AND HIS MISTER IZUKU MIDORIYA**

 

At first sight Mister Bilbo Baggins of Bag End was nothing less than the quintessential gentle-hobbit of his age. He was well-off and hospitable, two qualities that not too often went hand-in-hand, and had to his name a magnificent hobbit-hole under The Hill – synonymous to 'comfort' in every meaning of the word.

More importantly, he was respectable and proud of it: Tookish as his mother had been in her life (may her soul rest in peace), the good Mister Baggins took after his father more, and would never, ever do anything strange or out of the ordinary. Including, and especially, going on adventures beyond The River, thank you very much!

But those who knew him more intimately would note that he, too, had a rather queer habit. Then again the only one so close to him was his gardener Hamfast Gamgee, who was content with tending his gentle-hobbit's garden and not very interested in poking about his master's records (at any rate it would be an enormously impolite thing to do, and Hamfast prided himself on his propriety).

Every other day, after all letters had been written, all business handled, seven meals eaten and red wine drunk, Master Bilbo Baggins would sit down in front of his writing table now moved close to his bed. He would prepare an enormous tome now half-filled, and ink his quill. He would blow several enormous smoke rings, then he would set his pipe aside for the day, and with a fruity smile on his face he would write in a script unknown to neither Men nor Elves of his world: complicated and flowery, and resembled miniature drawings than actual letters.

His note would always begin like this: 

_“Thursday, the 12_ _th_ _of Astron, Year 1340 of the Shire Reckoning,_

_My dear Mister Izuku Midoriya, may the hair on your feet be woolly and warm (or nonexistent as is your like)...”_

And would always end like so:

_“... Thus ends my day, and begins yours. Please refrain from disturbing the peace at Bag End and the respectability of my Father's name, as is always._

_Sincerely yours, Bilbo Baggins.”_

And then he would go to bed, look long and hard into the comfy wooden ceiling of cozy Bag End one last time. 

Because next time he would open his eyes, odds were he'd be boxed inside walls of bricks and a ceiling of concrete, staring at so many paintings of a grinning blond who well resembled an overweight First Age Vanya of the host of Ingwe who ere dwelt in the Undying Land (or so the legends said).

_***_

At first sight Midoriya Izuku was your dime-a-dozen teenage boy living in a world where 80% of all folk has one sort of superpower (or “quirk” as they were known) or another. Well, as normal as a teenage boy of that world with no quirk to his name whatsoever – not one that he could control at any rate. 

More importantly, he was a nerd and a fanboy and proud of it: many a notebook he had filled, full of analyses and observations on the many, many heroes and villains that this brave new world had given birth to. Including, and especially, All Might the Symbol of Peace, greatest among heroes and the boy's idol. 

And those who knew him more intimately would note that he had yet another rather queer habit. Then again the only one so close to him was his mother, and Midoriya Inko has things in mind other (and at any rate more important) than her son's doings on his own smartphone.

Every other day, when he'd finished his religious daily re-watch of any number of videos with All Might in it, Midoriya Izuku would yawn loudly, set aside his many notebooks upon which “ _Hero Analysis for the Future_ ” was written, and leap on his bed. He would stare at the All Might posters plastered everywhere around his tiny room like drawing strength from it, and with a shaky grin on his face he would tap so many words on his smartphone screen: his notes were as a rule uncharacteristically long, and he'd often considered whether he should have gotten a new notebook just for this sort of thing.

His note would always begin like this:

_“_ Seireki _2014, April 12, Saturday,_

_Baggins-san, hope you're doing okay (and no I still don't want any hair on my feet thank you very much!)”_

And would always end like so:

_“Well, guess I'm in your care again. Please try not to get into a fight with Kacchan, and keep my stuff safe will you?_

_Cheers, Midoriya Izuku.”_

And then he would go to bed, look long and hard into his shrine-to-All-Might of a room one last time. 

Because next time he would open his eyes, odds were he'd find himself on a bed too small in a room too stuffy, surrounded by books and maps and fancy toys and the lovely aroma of a perpetually full larder.

***

When it happened the first time, the respectable Mister Baggins and the nerdy Izuku had thought the same thing: “ _What?_ ” followed by “ _Where?_ ” and then “ _How?_ ”. 

For Bilbo Baggins, to find himself trapped in the body of a Big Folk child had been the height of embarrassment and lack of propriety.

There he'd been, dressed in a toddler's clothing, rolling off a bed too large for his own folk, staring at a shelf full of little statues of this muscular blond whose blue tunic could hardly contain his muscles. When he had opened his mouth, he'd been speaking in a language not his own in a voice too high and cutesy.

Next thing he knew this Big Folk women had come rushing in, and heaved him over to breakfast, and promptly proceeded to fill up him with milk and fish, dress him up in tweenish clothes, and ship him off on her box-that-run to a place full of so many children. Bilbo would have tried running away, if he had not been too astonished and flummoxed during the whole time.

What was a quintessential gentle-hobbit to do?

As it happened, Bilbo had made it solely by _observing_.

Because respectable gentle-hobbits were to be calm and polite, and never to speak out of turn. He'd not been so sure if those words he had spoken in this strange tongue translated perfectly to “At your service and yours”, but the governess in charge of this nursery was immensely impressed.

So this forty-year-old hobbit, well-mannered and respectable as his father and his grandfather before him, had conducted himself most maturely in the face of this small cozy place full of children not a fifth his age. Because that was most certainly what his father would have done in his place.

The nursery had been quite nice, in the sense that it had reminded Baggins that he had been, by respectable standards, supposed to get married and have fauntlings of his own about now. Except that very quickly he'd been reminded that children like those around him hadn't been exactly, well, what he would have expected from kids of his own.

To put it simply, a very large part of them were _abnormal_ in the same way a wizard was abnormal: endowed with powers ranging from curious to terrifying. One could conjure light from every inch of his skin. Another could extend her snake-like arms and enjoyed doing it just for fun. Another could turn solid everything he wrote. Yet another talked to animals for fun. Yet another could detach their fist and shoot it forth like a missile. So on and so forth.

And there'd been this _delightful_ fellow who could make things explode by punching it. A boy whose messy white hair, toothy grin and arms always folded could hardly hide his swelled head. His name, as Bilbo soon learned, was Bakugou Katsuki.

Bilbo had found out equally quickly that Bakugou's favorite pastimes were respectively, punching stuff and picking on Izuku Midoriya. One explosive-sweat-powered shove and a nasty cultureless string of laughter later and the fact was plain for all to see.

It was under such circumstances that Bilbo Baggins had been forced into a battle: an unarmed (quirkless was the word, was it not?) child, versus one armed to the teeth, grinning and so confident he could take on a live dragon and win.

But this was important: children as a rule were fond of curious things, and in a world so saturated with physically wondrous things the well-crafted spoken word had suddenly become a rarity. And so Bilbo came up with a defense of his own. “Would you care for some riddles?” he'd said, smiling and politely, to a couple of girls and boys in their class, bored to tears by school. He quizzed them about fire and time and eggs, and a multitude of other mundane things oft forgotten in a world run by machines and amazing powers.

Bilbo Baggins had never quite fancied himself a teacher any more than he fancied being an adventurer. But like every good story-teller Bilbo knew how to begin a tale and where exactly to endone, and had put that knowledge to use accordingly. It wasn't too long before he'd found himself surrounded by a small group of delightful boys and girls, puppy-eyed and smiling and grinning, who'd clapped their hands and laugh and cried out for more riddles and more stories.

More importantly that meant the messy-haired boy who'd make a wizard blush with his explosions had been unable to get anywhere closer to him than Bilbo'd been comfortable with. He'd shouted and screamed and at one point tried to shove Bilbo's small congregation apart.

Unfortunately for Bakugou Katsuki, the one as a rule was unable to contend with the many very well – in particular a crowd of children trying to protect their new story-teller. And shouting “You worthless worms and your worthless quirks!” while dogpiled by half a dozen classmates (and their quirks), as a rule, was not going to endear the perpetrator very much to the stern governesses, whose job was to keep down this very manner of thing.

Judging from his kicking and screaming and blowing up at the teacher pulling him to the corner, it was maybe the very first time that Bakugou was subject to punishment of any sort. Bilbo Baggins had not known it then, but such was also the very first time the boy whose body Bilbo'd been inhabiting was regarded as something of a hero.

At the end of the day, he'd decided it had not been so bad. When the mess at the nursery had been made known to the parents of all the children involved, Izuku Midoriya's mother had put Bilbo to bed. She'd cried and told him how proud she'd been of him – and reminded Bilbo how dearly he'd missed the late Bungo and Belladonna Baggins.

Bilbo had not known it then, but the circumstances that made Mistress Inko Midoriya cry over such a seemingly minor thing would then end up driving the coming years of his own life. Though it would be a while before he'd learnt what exactly her name was.

When he'd woken up the next day, he'd been back to where he was meant to be: In a hole in the ground, and that meant comfort, as himself, rotund and hairy-footed and hungry for breakfast.

***

For Midoriya Izuku, it had been the closest he'd ever come to  _dying_ . 

Picture this, if you will: a six-year-old boy, trapped in a body too large to control. Locked and alone in a house full of sharp objects, tiny objects, breakable objects, things to trip on, things that could fall and crush, so many doors and locks, and a very large supply of alcoholic beverages. No Momma in sight, and no matter how hard he'd shouted and cried and hollered _nobody_ had come. And there'd been his body, too, large and fat and bulky, and there was this mass of _hair_ on his feet.

What was a boy to do?

As it happened, Izuku had made it solely by  _observing_ .

Because that had been the only thing meaningful he'd thought he could do for a very long time. He'd been so very afraid, but weren't heroes supposed to be brave and cool no matter how heinous the crime or the villain?

So this six-year-old boy, steadfast and brave as the boldest of heroes he idolized, had flashed a smile in the face of this big scary house full of unknowns. Because that was what All Might would have done in his shoes, right?

_That's right_ , he had thought, and proceeded to systematically analyze Bag End like it was a villain – except one that was directly threatening him. 

He'd found some loose paper in this fancy room full of books and maps, and a pencil too. Things he could use to write on, and that had been good.

Armed with such weapons of knowledge and a smile, he'd explored the place, taking note of where everything were. He'd found out, for example, that every rooms in the house had been neatly aligned along a single corridor, and that all the rooms on one side had been windowed and all on the other hadn't. Or that the doors were round and green and brass-knobbed in the center. Or that there were enough coat-hangers around the place for his entire kindergarten class to play with and then some.

Sure it'd been a big place. Sure there'd been no Momma there. Sure it had been everything his house was not. Sure Izuku had been lost and frightened as a child should never be.

But this was important: houses as a rule reflected their owners, and Bilbo Baggins had ever been a kindly host. There'd been food in the kitchen and warm blankets in any single bedrooms, and in the study there'd been picture books and many maps. Knives the hobbit had tucked away quite securely, and things that a child might swallow he'd put in a box (less because of duty of care and more because those were likely to be things of sentimental value)

Young Midoriya hadn't been able to read very well then, struggling with  _kana_ and the simplest  _kanji;_ certainly much less the blocky prints ubiquitous on those maps. 

But a good picture had ever been worth a thousand words, and there'd been many a picture: of many Warriors and Heroes fighting dragons and were-worms, of the elves who had ere dwelt in Gondolin and Doriath and wrought many wondrous things, of the fair elf-maiden Luthien lulling Morgoth Bauglir to sleep through the magic of her songs. And of course, the artistic impression of the brave Bandobras Took the Bullroarer, swinging his club and ripping the orc-chief Golfimbul's head right off.

The last said image was not exactly friendly to a child's innocence perhaps: There'd been a tiny little dude, scraggly-haired and hairy-footed, atop a pony suitably small, his club going whack, and a bigger dude's ugly, frightening head flying off the stump.

But Midoriya's borrowed eyes had widened, first at the singing elf-maiden, then at the little man beheading the big scary monstrous thing. He'd laid the two books wide open on the ground, and for long tarried before them. His fingers had traced the images, and the little child's brain had make out two things: One, those two smaller, less-scary-looking people had most definitely been heroes struggling against villains, though he knew not who they were meant to be.

And two, if these had been heroes, they'd clearly been  _winning_ without any sort of overwhelming quirk whatsoever.

At the end of the day, he'd decided it wasn't so bad. He'd climbed back into the bed from which he woke and covered his face with the blanket that had smelled vaguely of leaves and herbs and flowers. He'd dragged the picture book with Bandobras Took to bed with him.

Izuku had not known it then, but the hobbit who'd slain a goblin-chief and invented the game of golf at the same time would soon rank himself among Izuku's idols. Though it would be a while before he'd learnt what the hobbit hero's name actually was.

When he'd woken up the next day, he'd been back to where he was meant to be: Under the roof of his own home, surrounded by action figures and posters of All Might, still a quirkless boy of six whose feet were hairless.

***

It hadn't taken long for the both of them to realize the nature of the switch, though it was a while before some meaningful action was taken. If you would ask them neither Baggins nor Midoriya could recall whose idea it was at first (or perhaps each had devised it independently), but after a while they'd both go to sleep with some sort of writing implement in hand.

It also hadn't taken long for Bilbo Baggins to realize he had some sort of responsibility with this child to whom he'd been so inexplicably bound. Perhaps Eru Iluvatar and Yavanna had intended him a bachelor for a reason: because he was  _meant_ to be parent to a child not his flesh and blood. And what was the first thing a parent needed to do? To equip himself with what he needed to properly bring up a fauntling, of course!

So Bilbo Baggins had started to learn.

He was a middle-aged hobbit, sure, and not meant to be learning new things so much any more. But being given the body of a child meant being treated accordingly by everyone, and that meant the schooling he so desperately needed. He'd taken those lessons meant for the boy: in science and in mathematics, in the ways of the Big Folk of that foreign world – both technology and quirks, and most importantly in the flowery script they used.

So when Izuku finally reached for his pen and wrote “ _Nani ga kimi da ka?_ ” on a piece of paper and left it on his bed, his answer was “ _Bilbo Baggins, a hobbit of Bag End, Hobbiton, at your service_ ” - or the Japanese approximation thereof. 

Thus began their first conversation that played out over the course of a couple weeks, completely in writing.

_“What is a Baggins?”_ Izuku had written.  _“And what is a hobbit?”_

_“Far as I know you've been me, and I've been you half the time. You need only consult the nearest mirror next time you rouse. That's me; a hobbit,”_ Bilbo had answered, and added this little bit at the end.  _“There is one in the bathroom just down the hallways.”_

_“I know! Um... Nice house, by the way. And uh, my name's is Midoriya Izuku. They call me Deku, though. Sorry for putting you through, uh, whatever Kacchan does all the time.”_

_“I know. I see you haven't broken anything around here; that's more than I can say about most fauntlings your age, much less Big Folk! And never you mind about – what's his name again? Bakugou? He'd get what's coming to him some time.”_

_“Um, sorry for asking, but could you please not hurt Kacchan? I mean, he's not nice most of the time, but that's just who he is. I mean he's got an amazing quirk, and I, well, I don't have one.”_

_“I'll do what I can in the best interest of all,”_ was Bilbo's final answer after much deliberation.

The next few days, months,  _years_ had passed in much the same way: Every so often Bilbo Baggins and Midoriya Izuku would spend one day as the other person. Sometimes it was merely a couple days, sometimes as long as a week in between, but the switching was there to stay.

Katsuki Bakugou and his gang had quickly decided that Izuku (or “Deku” as they were now used to call him) did have a quirk after all: to quickly memorize things and come up with the most outlandish riddles from outright nowhere, but only once every so often. Which still made him useless and therefore deserving of the moniker. Unfortunately for Katsuki and company, a growing number of their friends disagreed.

Hamfast Gamgee and his wife had also decided that their Mister Baggins had apparently gone down with a chronic bout of disease that would leave him bed-ridden once every so often. News was fast to travel within Hobbiton, and for a time the Sackville-Bagginses's hope was all-time high that their eccentric cousin would keel over and die any day now. Unfortunately for the Sackville-Bagginses, months and years passed and Bilbo was still alive and kicking, and showed little desire to give them anything more than the silverware that Lobelia could steal.

In time Bilbo got into the habit of arranging things he'd like to have Izuku do on the table he'd now moved to his bedroom. Which meant books and more books, on practically every topic known and beloved by the hobbits whose magic was negligible but whose love for those things that grew were not. And most importantly, the many myths and legends of Arda, as told from the perspective of hobbits: of kings and heroes and wizards and warriors, and the many wondrous things wrought and lost and found. Of elves who had ere sailed on their white ships to Middle-Earth and were now leaving on board the same, and of the Shadow that once loomed and now was (ostensibly) no more. And of course, of the hobbits who were to remain carefree in their love of songs, fine food and excellent company.

In return Izuku taught Bilbo all he knew about practically any and every hero, to which there was no end either. Which meant an introduction to the wonders of Youtube, internet forums and social media, upon which there was a virtually endless supply of information on all things as long as you knew where to look. And most importantly, the ubiquitous presence of one Symbol of Peace: of how he'd always give his all against the villains who plagued their world, of his endless smiles and sunny demeanor, of his ever-longer list of exploits and people saved. And of course, of Izuku's greatest and most outlandish dream: to one day be someone like All-Might and conduct heroism with a smile.

They'd also come up with a kind of unspoken rule: They would both make an attempt not to meddle too much in the life of the other. Which, at the end of the day, wasn't all that hard. Bilbo needed only not show up his grown-up aptitude so often except for self defense – which meant telling stories and riddles when Bakugou was in the vicinity. Izuku needed only to stay away from the pile of paperwork that Bilbo had graciously labeled “ _Don't look, don't touch_ ” in the neatest Japanese he could come up with.

It was a most excellent arrangement, all told.

In time Izuku grew into this quirkless boy with a reputation for the oratory art – a skill that he was slowly mastering in his own name. His notebooks were now of two kinds: One was a meticulous recording of heroes and villains religiously maintained; the other a collection of stories and tales as told by Bilbo Baggins as well as of his own imagination's making, equally fervently filled. 

More than once Bilbo had written in his large communication tome: “ _I am proud of you_ ,” and meant it. Because their worlds might be different as night and day, but the need for good story-tellers, orators and entertainers would certainly be there to stay. 

Indeed they would have been perfectly contented living their respective lives that way, each living two lives and learning enormously from the other.  


But that was the story of the past.

The story of _today_ was how the pair found themselves at the receiving ends of events they were not meant to be a part of: How, on the same day, Izuku Midoriya was met by a wizard looking for someone to share in an adventure, and Bilbo Baggins stumbled into a murderous slime villain.

***

 


	2. Of Wizard and Villain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I truly never expected this idea of mine to be so well-received! Thanks to all of you who have read, commented and kudos'd!

**CHAPTER 1**

**OF WIZARD AND VILLAIN**

 

It was a good morning by all definitions. Not just that the sun was shining or the grass was very green or Baggins-san had prepared a mightily fine breakfast the previous night just waiting to be dug in, oh, no, sir.

No, it was because Midoriya Izuku was back to the Shire as a gentle-hobbit again.

Better: in the left-behind note on the bedside table, there was this little addendum affixed that made his day a hundredfold better.

_“P.S. In light of your last composition, I suppose you can leave the house – you know where the key is. But pray do not go too far! I wish not to wake up to find myself covered in dirt in some ditch away from home, thank you very much!_

_And whatever you do, do_ not _cross the Water without leave! There be nasty disturbing frightening things unbecoming of a gentle-hobbit!”_

Izuku grinned like a madman.

It had been shy of eight years now since that first switch, and Izuku had never, as a hobbit, even left Bag End. For the first few years it was because Bilbo had told him no: sharp though he was, Izuku had then still been a boy, and a boy had no business walking around in the guise of a mature gentlemen, had he?

For the next few years it was because Izuku had had no need to.

Bilbo's study was simply enormous, and no sooner had Izuku learnt the script of that world, common speech and a bit of elf-letters even, than a whole new world was open to him. He wasn't going to need Bilbo dictating stories to him no more. Nope, Izuku was going to put on his scholar hat and read through that entire study.

But now?

Now he'd covered a good chunk of that study and quite frankly speaking wanted some fresh air. Besides, he was a teenager about to enter high school, and that meant, he'd convinced himself, deserving of a bit more freedom, at the very least to go out there and smell the flowers. Trouble was, Bilbo hadn't exactly been a-okay with the idea for a while, for obvious reasons.

There were a few ways Izuku could have gotten himself out of the house: he could have begged and pestered Bilbo, he could have throw a minor tantrum (and being in full control of the hobbit's body he could have done a lot of damage without Bilbo being able to do anything about it), or he could have taken the key and just open the door himself (after all, the hobbit never quite kept a secret where he put his door key).

Izuku had done none of this.

Instead he spent two entire days composing an essay that would have passed for an university assignment, detailing exactly why (in his opinion) letting him out would be a Good Idea. He'd quoted everything he could think of from the tale of Beren and Luthien and the tragedy of the Children of Hurin to Hobbitish proverbs and wise-sayings, to the law and constitution of Japan, to a bunch of psychology papers he managed to dig up in a random Wiki-walk – that had said, in essence, an adolescent boy on a long leash would be happier, healthier and less likely to set precious stuff on fire.

In case his reasoning wasn't good enough, he concluded his essay with a “I promise I shall not make a mess” and his killing blow: a doodle of himself, puppy-eyed and grinning, waving at the sun.

It had worked perfectly.

The large green door creaked open, and a flood of sunlight engulfed Izuku. He closed his eyes, and had half a mind to stretch his arm dramatically like a character in a movie embracing the figurative light.

Izuku decided that would be too silly. Bilbo would kill him if anyone he knew had spotted Izuku acting silly in his body.

So he began the day doing small and simple things first, namely, surveying Bilbo's respectable outdoors estate. The morning was still early, and fresh dew was still hanging on the garden's many herbs and potted flowers. The gardens had been tended two days ago, from Bilbo's notes: which meant neither Gamgee nor Greenhand would be coming around any time soon. Sunlight was piercing through the canopy above and glazed the leaves below in a layer of splendid gold, and Izuku's eyes brightened.

If anyone had come visit Bilbo that early, they would have found the hobbit skulking around in his own garden with a notebook in hand, stopping once every so often to scribble and mumble to himself. Thankfully, Izuku's little stint went unnoticed by hobbits, dwarves, men and elves alike.

When Izuku was done with his exploration and note-taking, the sun had already risen above the canopy of the so-called Party Tree in the field down south. Still grinning, Izuku dropped himself on the bench on the porch. His eyes savored the marvelous view of the meadow below, his pencil gliding over paper. If he was to one day draw a manga of his own, thought Izuku, he'd put this scene in, no question asked.

Indeed, so absorbed was Izuku in his sketching and planning and day-dreaming, that all it took to very nearly startle him into a nasty fall was a voice ringing out from beyond the fence.

“Good morning!”

Izuku whipped his head towards the voice. It came from the dirt road beyond Bag End's fences: there, in the middle of Bagshot Row, stood an old man looking like a stereotypical wizard in a popular Western children's book of the previous century. Which was to say, long dusty robe, gnarly staff, humongous beard tucked in his silver belt, and a giant-brimmed hat that had 'old wise man' written all over it. Figuratively, of course.

“Uh... yes?” was all that Izuku could manage. Where was his manner? “I mean, uh... Good morning to you, sir!”

Better.

“Good morning?” said the old man. “Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is morning to be good on?” He paused. “Regardless, I suppose it is indeed a very good morning, my good sir, because far as I know you haven't the habit of doing the gardening yourself!”

Which was one, observant, two, pedantic, and three, juuuust a tiny bit _strange_ of a conversation opener. Izuku thought at his worst he'd be less awkward with his mumbling. But then the old man was looking at him; earnestly waiting for an answer.

What choice did he have?

“Pardon me, I don't have many guests very often,” Izuku said, and it was so truthful as to come off not as an excuse at all. “So I was assuming you have, ah, business to discuss.”

“That might be the case,” said the old man. He gave Izuku a long hard look. “It's equally surprising you have given up the pipe, Mister Baggins?"

Izuku scratched his head. “Pipe?” And then he recalled the pipe cabinet in the foyer with “ _do not touch under any circumstance_ ” stickied on it. “Oh! You mean _that_ pipe!” he said quickly. “Well, uh... I'm just... you see, not feeling like smoking so much these days. Smoking is bad for the lungs, isn't that what they say?”

The old man raised his brows. “Indeed?” he said. “At any rate the pleasure of the pipe is yours to indulge or abstain, my dear Mister Baggins. Besides, I'm afraid I should have a busy morning. I am looking for someone to share in an adventure that I am arranging, and it is very difficult to find anyone.”

A million warning bells going ding-a-ling in Izuku's head. _Does this old man even know Bilbo? That word might as well be a swear word to him!_

For a moment he kept his silence, but then the old man was casting this blinkless gaze at him from beneath his massive hat.

“I'm sorry, but I thought you said 'an adventure'?” he finally said.

“Why, yes, of course,” said the old man. “An adventure that would be very exciting and profitable; and quite amusing too.”

Now he'd lifted his gaze, as if giving Izuku time to think. He couldn't be more thankful; his brain was going into overdrive.

Five seconds passed. Ten. Twenty.

Izuku looked up to see the old man still standing there tapping his staff on the ground. He drew a stiff breath, and looked the old man in the eyes. “I beg your pardon, but...” he said. “Why would you come here to Hobbiton looking for a hero- I mean, an adventurer?”

“I am not sure if I understand the question, Mister Baggins,” said the old man. “Why shouldn't I come here?”

“Because it's a quiet place populated by quiet folks, like B- like me!” Izuku said quickly. “No excitement, no crime, no fuss, no hassle, just... well, trees and gardens and fields! Nothing ever happens of note over here.”

“That is a good thing, is it not?” said the old man.

“Yes, but that also means here's the worst place ever to find a random hero who can and would go on an adventure whatsoever!” said Izuku. “No villain, no trouble... no hero and no adventurers, it's that simple. So either you are wandering about here looking for something other than an adventurer... or you've already picked one and are now only trying to persuade him into joining.”

The old man's bushy brows raised, but Izuku didn't stop. “I doubt it's the latter for much the same reason: I can't think of anyone around who would have the right quirk! So it can only be the former,” he said. “But then I doubt you're a thief or a criminal looking for a quick buck: wouldn't that beard and robe get in the way of being inconspicuous and sneaky? Besides, that sort of _villains_ don't walk out during the day-” _Not without an impressive quirk,_ thought Izuku. “-and don't stop to make small talks with a gentle-hobbit, would they?” He trained his eyes at the old man. “I'm sorry, but what exactly do you want?”

“Very observant indeed, my dear sir. Perhaps more so than I remembered and such is a pleasant surprise!” said the old man. He walked a little closer, and stopped just shy of the gate: any further and Izuku would have panicked and screamed. “Why, you are right, let me revise my wording. I meant to inquire if _you_ would like to join us on this grand adventure, Mister Baggins.”

“Bil- I mean, me?” exclaimed Izuku. “I mean, sure, that's flattering, but I don't think I even _know_ you, ah, Mister, uh...” His voice lowered into a squeak.

“Well now, Mister Bilbo Baggins, you certainly do know my name – though perhaps you don't quite remember I belong to it. I am Gandalf, and Gandalf means me!”

“Gandalf?” said Izuku, racking his brain. Had he heard this name before?

No he hadn't. Not in Bilbo's study, not in his here's-what-happened-today notes, and not at any other place or occasion. “You're right, sir,” he said. “I don't remember.” More like he didn't know, but what was the difference in this case? “Although you do resemble a wizard or a magician of some sort.”

Gandalf tipped his hat. “Well, your late mother would be disappointed!” he said. “She took great pride in your ability to keep your thoughts organized, after all. At any rate you are right; I _am_ a wizard, and knew poor Belladonna well.”

_So one of Bilbo's acquaintances? But then why has he never mentioned him?_

“I see, sir,” said Izuku. “I guess... it's good to see you again.” he paused a bit, and his mind wandered back to the uncomfortable topic of _adventure._ “But why me? I don't have a lot to offer.”

“Very amusing, Mister Baggins,” said the old man, “but you've already brought to the table quite a bit: an observant hobbit with a healthy inquisitive mind! That is more than a good many folk I have had the fortune (or lack thereof) to know! Besides, there is much in you, perhaps even the sort for heroes, that you know not!”

What Gandalf had said was essentially, “ _Young man, you too can become a hero_ ” paraphrased. Yet oft the speaker mattered more than the thing being spoken. The words that would have been so moving, so inspiring, so life-changing for Izuku in another timeline, from the lips of this shady condescending wizard happened to press all of Izuku's buttons in the wrongest way possible: not unlike telling a person with disabilities that perhaps they could even be _normal_.

Well brought up as he was, it was all Izuku could do not to channel Kacchan and explode into a million expletives. “I'm sorry, my dear sir, but I cannot,” was all he managed to say.

It was meant to be an excuse – not least because Bilbo would really murder Izuku had he said yes – yet it was more truthful than Izuku would have liked. Truthful enough to hurt more than a little; because there were some wounds that wouldn't quite heal so well and being a quirkless boy in a society full of wondrous folk were among them.

Now Gandalf's eyes widened. “Surely you mean what you said, my good sir?”

“I do,” said Izuku. “Like I said, you'd have more luck elsewhere.” He drew in a deep breath, and steadied himself. “I'm sorry, but you have to leave.”

With that, he slammed the door in the wizard's face and clasped the lock shut.

Even when the large round door had closed behind him, Izuku could still hear his own words echoing in his head.

Deep inside he was both sorry for his outburst, and not at all.

***

It spoke volumes about Bilbo's skill at pedagogy that he had succeeded in persuading Izuku not to bet his everything in getting into U.A.

It spoke volumes about Izuku's obsessive note-taking that he had succeeded in persuading Bilbo to do basically the same thing.

Not that Bilbo hadn't been a good record keeper before. He had just never been so obsessive as to bring his record-books everywhere the way Izuku did.

So when Katsuki blasted a notebook out of his hand and into the water tank below, it wasn't Izuku's hero-analysis notebook filled with hopes and dreams and aspirations. No, that pretty little thing filled with pretty little drawings had been locked securely in Izuku's room, as some kind of hobby rather than a talisman from which the green-haired boy would draw strength.

Instead it was just an ordinary Campos volume filled with notes on the modern life and the Japanese language, both of which Bilbo was still having some trouble adjusting to. Which was to say, much, _much_ more disposable.

“Boys will be boys,” Bilbo thought as he left the notebook to dry, and lost no time rushing 'home'.

In another timeline Izuku would have lost a couple of minutes shaking and blanking out, and then walk home cackling like mad. That couple of minutes ensured he would have run into a certain slime villain on the run in a certain dark tunnel.

In this timeline, Bilbo's stroll through the tunnel was nothing less than delightful. It was a fine day; the sun was shining brightly, though the grass wasn't as green as he'd have liked.

Deep down Bilbo couldn't help but be amused that Katsuki Bakugou's attempts at bullying him were just that – attempts. If he'd wanted to break the self-esteem of a wealthy, knowledgeable and respectable gentle-hobbit, he'd have to do a _much_ better job than shouting and yelling and blasting. Because a hobbit, in particular a middle-aged one, was sturdier in both body and mind than most would give them credit for.

What _did_ happen to him instead, was a scream.

It wasn't even a loud scream, more like a muffled whimper so easily drown out by the hustle and bustle of a busy street. But it was still a horrified scream the likes of which Bilbo could never imagine in his environ, and therefore stood out like a sore thumb.

It took Bilbo one second to decide. He took off his shoes – because feet-hair or no feet-hair the nasty little things were terribly uncomfortable – and dashed towards the direction of the scream.

What he saw was a monster made entirely of green sludge _strangling_ a boy. A boy he knew, too: Nendan Hijikata was the name, one of Katsuki's pack. Quirk was something to do with clay, last time Bilbo checked.

It was at that moment that Bilbo realized the Tookish part in him was ever only sleeping, not erased, and now it urged him to _do something_ quickly.

Easier thought than done. He could rush in trying to tackle the monster. He could throw things at it – like Izuku's shoes in his hand.

Or... he could do it like a gentle-hobbit and _talk_ to the thing.

So he huddled himself close to the wall at his end of the tunnel and cleared his throat.

“A very good morning to you, my good sir!” he said. “Bilbo Baggins at your service!”

The monster might have expected a few things; a venturesome voice echoing at the other end of the tunnel was none of it. “Eh?”

“Why, I must have walked into a most unsightly scene,” said Bilbo. “May I inquire after the quarrel you have with the young lad over there? Because this is a tad unfair, nay, unjust, even, picking on a lad without giving him half a chance to fight back!”

“Show yourself, you twerp!”

“I am standing right here, Master Sludge,” said Bilbo. “You see, I am a hobbit, and we are, ah, a little small and unassuming. But I assure you our voice is not!”

He stole a very quick glance into the tunnel as he spoke. Its inside was shaking as the monster thrashed about. Many a slimy tendrils parted from its main mass, reaching and slithering all over the tunnel.

“Goodness gracious, there are many ways to solve a dispute and violence is definitely not it!” he chided, and glanced inside again: the monster was not moving from its spot. Whatever it was doing seemed to _require_ it not to move. It eyes, however, were darting about; its grip on the boy's body loosened. Bilbo could count it an initial success.

The next step, of course, was to call for help. Conspicuously and inconspicuously at the same time. He tossed one of the shoes across the tunnel entrance so that it landed on the opposite side, and flung a pebble into the tunnel. The tunnel _quaked_ in response.

A whole lot of good it did the monster. Bilbo had long rolled out of the way, and now he'd made it to the open street, and funneled his hand around his mouth.

“BLOW THE HORN, RING THE BELL, SOUND THE ALARM! FEAR, FIRE, FOE, FELL AND TERRIBLE!” he cried. “MURDER! MURDER! INNOCENT-EATING MONSTER!”

The next thing Bilbo Baggins saw was the most wondrous thing he had ever witnessed.

And suddenly it became so obvious _why_ All Might was Izuku Midoriya's idol for all those years: Splendor with an extra side dish of “ _TEXAS SMASH!_ ”

***

Being a child of the New Tens meant plenty of good things and a few, glaring, issues. The biggest of which was an infuriating incompetence in searching for any information that did not involve the internet.

Even so, Izuku had got the idea that the best way to find out about a person's friends and acquaintance (or people claiming the same) was to look up their diary.

He spent the whole morning pacing around Bilbo's study. He'd looked up all of the gentle-hobbit's journals that he'd kept, a whopping set of a dozen leather-bound volumes kept over the course of forty years, and put it on the table in a pile.

When push came to shove, however, he couldn't bring himself to open the tomes. Because Bilbo would certainly be mad if he found out. No, beyond that: because Bilbo had _trusted_ him not to impinge upon stuff he had no business digging up.

But then the relationship he'd built up with the hobbit over the past decade was built on the basis of a much more fundamental trust. That in any circumstance one would act in the best interest of the other. That if momentary annoyance would result in long-term benefit (or aversion of danger) then it was worth it, and finding information on Gandalf and report to Bilbo accordingly _was_ to his best interest. Besides, mature or not Izuku was still a fourteen-year-old boy, and part of him _really_ wanted to have the off-chance he could dig up some dirt on the old man.

It took Izuku much of the day to decide; and when he did there was no looking back. Izuku bit his lips, and began flipping the first pages of that forbidden tome with “ _S.R. 1300 – 1303_ ” plastered on the cover.

As he expected, most of that first volume were musings of a teenage Bilbo – amusing and at times embarrassing. It was clear that the hobbit loved writing and the sound of his own prose, but loved his parents and cousins much more. He went on for paragraphs about how he couldn't have asked for a better family; the way he described the late Belladonna Baggins his mother might as well have been Izuku writing about his own Mom.

The read brought tears to his eyes. Unfortunately, there was not one mention of Gandalf in the whole of three hundred or so pages.

Next volume, _“S.R. 1303 – 1307”._ More of the same, except with more quotes and excerpts randomly inserted all over, and once every so often a poorly-drawn map or two in between the pages. The young Bilbo must have started discovering his love for proverbs and maps at around that time, which was both bad and good. Bad, because those little inserts were as distracting and cringe-worthy as any of the note-taking Izuku himself had done in elementary school. Good, because he could skip entire pages now without losing much.

As before, that was two whole hours of skimming that turned up no information on Gandalf at all. Izuku yawned: at this moment Ctrl + F would look like the greatest invention of mankind unavailable.

“ _S.R. 1307 – 1310”._ Bilbo had certainly been doing some growing up around that time and it showed. The writing had been trimmed down and resembled a diary more like a child's random ramblings. Still quite a fair bit too lengthy and prosy here and there. The sun had set long before he was done with it.

Next volume, _“S.R. 1311 – 1313”._

The first quarter of the journal was unremarkable: Bilbo's prose had become sharper and more mature still, and his quoting of proverbs became less jarring; though as was the norm life in the Shire was peaceful and therefore nothing worthy of writing a novel over. Which meant no Gandalf either.

And then Izuku flipped those last pages of the year 1311.

There was an annotation in a radically different handwriting on the margin. “ _Fell Winter, 1311 – 1312. By Eru and Yavanna, we have survived. For the sake of posterity, lest in plenty you forget moments of dearth._ ”

It was Bilbo's current handwriting, and the ink looked brighter and less faded. He must have recently added that part.

 _“13_ _th_ _Blotmath 1311,_

_… the Water froze overnight! Da seems extremely worried. Last time this happened many people died of the frost and hunger..._

_\------_

_16_ _th_ _Blotmath 1311,_

_… we couldn't leave the house. There is plenty to eat, certainly, well into summer next year if we ration, but Ma is restless..._

_\------_

_27_ _th_ _Blotmath 1311,_

_… the wolves seem abnormally active. They don't come around often and praise Yavanna for that, but with the Water frozen and preys scarce in their habitats it is entirely possible..._

_\------_

_15_ _th_ _Foreyule 1311,_

_… The horn was blown! The Horn of Buckland called! This has never happened in my lifetime – and not in Da's as well! At any rate Da got into the store-room at the end of the corridor and dragged out the family bill - hadn't seen battle since old Greenfield and looks in a bad way._

_Ma didn't object. In fact, she dug up a short sword of her own..._

_\------_

_16_ _th_ _Foreyule 1311,_

_… between themselves Da and Ma took down three wolf. Never seen Da so ferocious or Ma so fast on her feet._

_Uncle Rudigar showed up late in the afternoon. He took down a wolf, too, but a couple of his fellow farm-hands were mauled. One didn't make it._

_There were talks of whether we would need to muster the Hobbitry-in-Arms to fight off the wolves..._

_\------_

_20_ _th_ _Foreyule 1311,_

_… quite likely there will be no Yuletide party this year._

_Over the past four day, however, the wolves have been well repulsed. Those wolves we killed have relieved the pantry somewhat: Wolf stew isn't the best dish there is, but it is meat none the less and I doubt anyone is complaining..._

_\------_

_29_ _th_ _Solmath 1312,_

_… the earth is impossible to till. And even if we could, there was no way anything would grow at all. The Water is still solid as rock. Unless the cold fades in a few weeks, this entire planting season is lost._

_No merchants are coming around from Breeland or beyond, or so I heard from Da. Said the frost struck the Big Folk's places even harder than the Shire._

_Da and Ma left for Tuckborough today at Grandda's summon. In the meantime I am in charge of the cousins. “Make sure they don't go hungry,” Ma said._

_I will try. So says Bilbo Baggins of Bag End._

_\------_

_12_ _th_ _Reethe 1312,_

_… Old Largo passed away yesterday. He had been in a bad way for months: the hunger was the final straw. It took Fosco and Uncle Longo and Bingo half a day only to dig a shallow grave in the frozen earth._

_Da and Ma returned home. No food coming from Tuckborough. The larder of Bag End is the only real food store in Hobbiton now._

_A new grave is being dug every day. On a bad day, like today, that makes two..._

_\------_

_15_ _th_ _Reethe 1312,_

_… the last of the perishables is gone. Now we only have dried bread and some cram rations, and even then the rationing is hurting the children most of all._

_Petunia Twofoot and Blanco Brandybuck ran off in the night. The grown-ups are still searching for them now. They'd mumble something about a hollow in the wilds beyond the Water where there's plenty of food to be had._

_Da and Ma said they will surely be alright, because nature adore children and the Valar protect them. But they said that with this sorrowful look in their eyes. I'm old enough to know what they mean._

_\------_

_19_ _th_ _Reethe 1312,_

_… they found Petunia and Blanco._

_They are gone, the poor lad and lass. They found them frozen in a hollow near Bywater Pool._

_Their eyes were closed: the adults said they were gone in their sleep..._

_\------_

_3_ _rd_ _Astron 1312,_

_Gandalf came!_

_When was the last time the old wizard came by Hobbiton? Must have been years back – his firework was spectacular, as were the gifts he gave the Old Took._

_This time around he brought no firework, no fancy tricks, not even a smile – who could have smiled at our plight? No, he and the grim-looking Big Folk accompanying him wore only their dusty travel clothes and hoods, and boots tough and well-worn._

_They bought us food, carried in two large wagons: potatoes and corn and onions and tomatoes and many sacks of flour. They went around Bagshot Row, knocked on each door, and left each family their ration, only to depart as quickly as they came without waiting for a “thank you kind sir” or a “pray have some tea”._

_By the time he'd made his round about Hobbiton Gandalf had had a dozen fauntlings running behind him; in thanks, in joy, in curiosity. Odo and Falco, Posco and Prisca and Dora as well, holding little Drogo's hand. And a few of the adults, too: Aunt Belba chief among them, and out of anger rather than gratitude (I heard her shout “Fat lot of good you wizard and rangers did”. If Gandalf was offended, he didn't show it)._

_And then Gandalf stopped, for maybe five minutes at Bag End. I was sent off before I could eavesdrop: whatever they spoke with Da and Ma is anyone's guess. Though since Da and Ma sent him off with a “Tea is at four, pray come have some when you have time”, perhaps they are in good terms after all._

_Well, it is as Da says: Third time pays for all._

_\------”_

Izuku couldn't recall how long he had sat there teary-eyed. Certainly for long after closing that last page.

An extreme winter? Wolf attacks? Honest-to-Kami _starvation_? Children running off into the wild and die? Those were the words he'd only hear in history textbooks, in an era bygone when quirks had not exist, technology had been backward and the world less civilized.

If he was to close his eyes and think for a while, that seemed just like the sort of thing that could happen in Bilbo's world. There was nary a machine in sight, and the most advanced farming tools were hoes and shovels and sickles and pitchforks.

But then it was something that happened to _Bilbo_ , and Izuku shuddered. It wasn't unlike hearing an acquaintance almost dying in a villain attack: it was more real, more visceral, more _frightening_ when it was close to home. Suddenly the 'seven-meals-a-day' hobbitish routine – that Izuku had heard of but never practiced – became a lot more harrowing.

It was that moment that Izuku realized that being the kind of hero like All Might or Endeavor or any number of pro-hero wasn't the be-all-and-end-all of things.

But that line of logic brought to his mind another thought.

Izuku must have read and reread that final entry a dozen times now. Comparisons were as a rule quick to come to a clever mind, and Izuku was nothing if not clever.

The comparison this time? The Gandalf that Bilbo described reminded him of one hero most people did not know exist. Eraserhead was his hero name, and he did what heroes did... except from the shadow. No fanfare, no fanciful finisher, little to now press or social media coverage. But he saved lives and took down villains as effectively as any pro but the very best, and didn't quite care about recognition or any kind of public reward.

_Was that the kind of person this Gandalf was?_

_…_ But that didn't mean he would immediately trust the wizard. Perhaps Bilbo would have done differently in his shoes. So Izuku was going to leave it to the man (well, hobbit) to decide himself, because it was not his decision to make.

 _“Baggins-san,”_ he wrote. _“I bet you cannot believe what happened here today: Gandalf came. Someone claiming to be him, at least. You can't get a more wizardly fellow if you tried.”_

Over five pages he wrote down everything he remembered and everything to come to mind. He did left out the part where Gandalf offended him, because the wizard probably did not think it would be hurtful. _“I might have yelled at the old man and shut the door in his face,”_ he wrote instead. _“If it wouldn't be too much trouble, could you please apologize for me? Please? Sorry for the troubles!”_

He paused on the page. Then, blushing furiously, he made his big sorry-I-did-something-wrong confession of the day. _“Oh, and I... kinda sorta dug up your old journals to see if you've got anything on this Gandalf guy. I'm sorry! I'll erase everything from my head, promise!”_

Then Izuku hastily put everything back where they belong, and jumped on his – by which he meant Bilbo's – bed, and called it a day.

***

“I hope the poor fellow is not too badly hurt,” said Bilbo, switching off his phone. He'd just called the healer – by which he meant 'ambulance', and was thanking Izuku inside for having taught him that little bit of modern-day knowledge.

“He should be fine,” said All Might. “Thanks to you, young man. If you hadn't been around distracting the villain-” he held up a large bottle filled with greenish goop. “-who knows what would have happened.”

It was All Might.

It was Izuku's idol, in the flesh. And by 'Izuku's idol' Bilbo meant a bit of his own, too: because there was no way anyone would look at All Might and his long history of fighting crime without some measure of respect if not outright adoration. He wasn't even in costume, but was clad in white shirt and baggy pants: which in this world meant as casual as casual went.

“Now I have to deliver this evil-doer to justice,” he said. “The work of heroes never end, you see!”

Then a question overwhelmed him all at once. That was All Might standing in front of him. Neither Izuku nor himself might have this chance again, to ask that one question that had been plaguing his little protege for as long as he had existed.

It was all Bilbo could do to maintain a halfway gentlemanly mannerism.

“Sir?” he exclaimed, and when All Might turned his head around his stiff upper lip slipped. “Could I ask you one question?” he said quickly. “Could a quirkless person become a hero like you?”

Bilbo could swear he saw All Might flinch. Indeed he did stay silent... for all of five seconds.

“I'm sorry,” All Might finally said. “Tell your friend... no, he cannot. This world of heroes isn't something you can _survive_ without a good quirk.”

There was no malice in his speech. In fact, there was something like... sympathy? He was lowering his voice and spoke barely in a whisper, after all.

And then All Might turned away, as if preempting Bilbo from asking any more questions. “So, then, I'll be counting on the vigilance of the common folks like yourself!” he shouted, and took off into the sky like an arrow loosen from an elven bow.

“Ah, heroes,” muttered Bilbo. Not that he didn't understand: important folks were as a rule too busy, while lesser people like himself and his, well, always happened to have too much time on hand.

Perhaps it was good enough that Bilbo was the one to ask, not Izuku. The boy would have been devastated.

Perhaps at some point Izuku would become like Bilbo and maintained a healthy appreciation for songs and food and the counting of genealogies, but that time was yet to come.

The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully. Save for the – was it called an ambulance? That took the unconscious boy away. There didn't seem like much Bilbo could do other than tag along. He had half a mind to leave the lad to the healers (paramedics! Bilbo reminded himself). He didn't know the fellow all that well, and at any rate he was one of Katsuki's merry men and therefore might not have liked the notion of having been saved.

He didn't know why he went along with it. It seemed to have made no difference at first... until the ambulance was derailed – quite literally, by a piece of falling debris.

Bilbo's reflex saved him: he clung to the railing just as the ambulance rocked.

For a brief moment Bilbo saw many stars. Water overflowed his eyes, and his entire right arm felt like someone had hit it with a hammer.

When he finally came around, before him spread a most terrible sight. The paramedic was less lucky that he had been; the driver even less. The former hit his head on the side of the car and fell in a heap. The latter was smashed against the mirror. His classmate was secured against the stretcher and fortunately didn't get hurt worse than he already had been.

Worse of all: he was trapped in a wrecked car – and from what he was able to glean from the books and media of this world that was just slightly better than being buried alive

His first instinct was to run. In fact that was what he would have done if he could: The door wouldn't open. He yanked and yanked and yanked at the handle, but succeeded only in tearing it off.

And then the floor rumbled. Fortunately, it was not the end of Bilbo Baggins: something large and heavy had just landed outside the ambulance. “Have no fear!” he heard an all too familiar voice ring out, “Because I am here!”

There was an ear-splitting screech. The ambulance's loading door was torn apart and thrown aside like a piece of molding clay.

“Come on then, if you can run, run! I'll take care of-”

And then he started coughing. Bilbo's eyes caught a dash of crimson on the hand over his mouth. Within the span of ten seconds flat the great hero was covered in a cloud of smoke and steam, and at once resembled more an old man on his deathbed than the Symbol of Peace.

His sunken eyes were wide open, staring at Bilbo like he was something disproportionately frightening. Bilbo was staring back at him for Eru and Yavanna knew how long.

“Mister A-All Might?”

The new All Might's first reaction after snapping out of his trance was to look around in a hurry. He immediately sighed in relief: the ambulance had crashed against a wall, and the smoke and dust thrown up had form a kind of curtain around them both.

“Argh... t-to hell with it. You, young man! Save yourself! I will handle it here!”

Deflated as he was, All Might was surprisingly fast on his feet: he dragged out first the paramedic, then the driver, and hauled them both out of the way.

What could Bilbo do but comply?

So he did all he could, and dragged Izuku's classmate – thankfully as scrawny as Izuku was – out of immediate danger.

He promptly realized 'out of immediate danger' was not synonymous with 'out of danger'. All about him there was chaos. People running around. Shirriffs desperately trying to control the crisis and setting up fences and directing traffic. Once every so often a car horn honking and whipping everyone else into a worse frenzy than they were already in. A chunk of the five-story apartment on their side of the road had been ripped right off.

“Hello? Hello?” he cried. “Could anyone help? Anyone?”

The cityscape was thick with smoke and dust and steam. Explosions were resounding from just down the street. Flame was flickering in the distance: from busted vehicles and from those buildings in that direction.

A hundred voices were ringing out in the midst, one after the other.

“Where are the heroes?”

“They're there! They're just not helping at all”

“The villains caught a hostage!”

“A boy! He caught a boy!”

“It's terrible! He's turning the boy's quirk against the other heroes!”

“Everything's exploding! Get out of there!”

Something flashed in Bilbo's head.

Slime villain. Using a hostage's quirk.

_Explode._

Bilbo did not know exactly what happened to him, but the Tookish part that told him to help Nendan earlier now again drove him into a most un-respectable course of action. With strength he didn't know he (or Izuku for that matter) had, Bilbo dragged the classmate across the road to the nearest ambulance parking nearby.

_Have to be fast, have to be fast, have to be fast..._

“Healer!” he cried, the correct terminology having long escaped him.

“Oh dear,” cried the paramedic. “What happened?”

“Strangled,” said Bilbo tersely. “Not sure if he was hurt anywhere else. Do take care of him!”

The next seconds passed by in a blur. Bilbo was moving entirely out of instinct: doing what the paramedic told him as best as he could. It took Nendan's smartphone falling out of his pocket with a _clank_ to shake Bilbo out of his frenzied trance.

On reflex he picked up the boy's phone and stuffed it into his pocket. Where Nendan was going, he wouldn't need a phone and Bilbo could always give it back later.

“You did good, boy,” said the paramedic. “Now run along! This place is dangerous!”

Bilbo nodded even though he was planning on doing just the opposite. He didn't argue. Arguing was in poor taste. In a pinch hobbits act, not talk.

Off he took into the crowd, and pushed through the throng closer to the actual crime scene, dodging debris and leaping over abandoned cars.

By the time he got just outside of the fence of blue tape the shirriffs had set up, before him stretched a scene of devastation not unlike a dragon let loose.

There, down the street was the sludge monster just now. How All Might 'managed' to let him slip was anyone's guess. Worse: the rumors were correct. It had nabbed Katsuki, and was now holding him gagged within its slimy mass.

A group of four warriors ('pro-heroes', Bilbo reminded himself of the terminology) were trying to get close to the slime monster. Emphasis on _trying_ : Now the beast had grown to a spectacular size, its amorphous tendrils snapping and whipping about, causing explosions as it hit solid surfaces.

Should he try to save Katsuki? No, that was a resolute 'of course', but only if he could. The real question then, was 'could he'?

And then Bilbo felt something in his pocket. _Nendan's … phone?_

_“Oh, didn't you know the smartphone has a loudspeaker you can turn on? Good for when you want the whole room to hear what you're chatting about! Don't know why you would want that though...”_

A thought flashed in his head. There was no time to test his theory out. His shaking fingers scrolled through Izuku's contact list. _Eiji... Fujiyama... Hachimaru... Hijikata – there goes!_

Off Bilbo dashed through the line of heroes, leaving their shouts and hollers behind him, one phone in each hand. He dashed to the closest cover where he could get a good shot. There, still hidden, Bilbo drew in a deep breath full of the smell of smoke and soot. He pressed the 'dial' button on Izuku's phone, and swiped his finger across Nendan's.

He pressed that little red button with “loudspeaker” printed on it.

_If this fails I shall distrust technology for all eternity!_

Up sprang Bilbo, and flung Nendan's smartphone at the creature's eye. The hobbit's aim was true: there was a sickening _squish_. The creature howled in pain, and moved two of its tendril to rub its eye.

“Why, hello there my good sir. Bilbo Baggins at your service again!” Bilbo said into the phone, adding a calculated dash of mischief to his voice. “I see you've picked on _another_ lad who can't fight back! What happened to goodly old courage and fair fight?”

If previously his voice only irritated the monster, _now_ it made the beast fly into a rage.

“You meddling kid!” it hollered. “I'll tear you apart!”

It turned left and right, its tendrils extended and extended and extended. But its grip on Katsuki weakened quickly: no sooner had the clasp on the boy's mouth loosened than he broke his face free, gasping for air. And by 'gasping for air', Bilbo meant 'more furious and vengeful than Feanaro Curufinwe of whose cruelty and wrath the three kindred of elves remember well into the Third Age.'

“You...”

An explosion took off a chunk of its front tendril.

“...piss-soaked....”

Another staggered it backwards.

“... piece of...”

Another punched a hole through his inchoate torso.

“... _shit_!”

Its eye blew up in a shower of gel and sludge.

In a matter of seconds it was no longer able to send huge blasts everywhere any more. That was the good news.

The bad news was, now the creature, in pain and seemed intent on doing one thing and one thing only: Finding the meddling boy and beat the tar out of him.

The worst news?

The last explosive swipe ripped off the fence under which Bilbo was hiding.

“There you are!”

For a split second Bilbo's eyes met the beast's bloodshot ones. His heart stopped.

_Blimey._

Had it come a second later, “ _DETROIT SMASH_ ” might have been the last thing Bilbo had ever heard.

_***_

The aftermaths of the fight passed by in much of a blur compared to everything before.

Bilbo could vaguely remember Katsuki Bakugou being showered with all the praise from the pro-heroes for his strong quirk and his unyielding fighting spirit – everything but his potty mouth, really, which was unceremoniously swept under the rug.

But arguably Bilbo got the better deal. The shirriffs singled him out, and whisked him away before the press and the other heroes could get a chance to accost him. So while the scene was still in a mess, Bilbo got to sit in a cool room with a cool iced drink, and some balm for his many bruises. It was a clinically squeaky-clean room, however, and just sitting there alone was uneasy enough.

It was almost a relief to see the chief Shirriff, in his long coat and felt hat, entering the room with All Might. The emaciated All Might, at any rate.

“Tsukauchi,” said All Might. “If you don't mind, I'd borrow the boy for a minute.”

“Certainly,” said the shirriff. He tapped the emasciated man on the shoulder. “You take care now, Yagi.”

At that exact moment Bilbo did not understand the full implication of those few syllables. It was only when he was sitting, face-to-face and behind closed doors, with the man who was All Might (in another form) that it all became clear.

“Now, young man,” he said. “I owe you both an apology and more than a few answers.”

Aside from the apology (for dropping the sludge monster in the first place – flying, as it turned out, was a messy business best left to giant eagles), which Bilbo promptly accepted, never before during his-body switches, not even on the very first day, had Bilbo felt more like this place was not _his_ to sit.

He was listening to the one man Izuku looked up more than anyone else in existence, talking about who he was and how he became like he was. How his quirk worked. How a fight crippled him so. How he'd kept all of this a secret because a world such as this needed a symbol to keep the peace. How he was, Bilbo realized, not that much different from Izuku.

And finally, on that one question he'd asked.

“You've asked me if there is a way to become a hero if you have no quirk,” said All Might. “and that you are asking for a friend.” His eyes glinted knowingly. “But you weren't telling the truth, were you? Because it is _you_ who are quirkless.”

“... it is so, sir,” said Bilbo, and he meant it. Both for himself, and for Izuku.

“And yet today you've done all you can to save not one, but two boys. Both times you could have done well to just run. Save yourself. Why?”

Because something Tookish had awoken inside him.

Because to see someone in need of help and stand there doing nothing would be against everything that made a hobbit a hobbit.

Because at that exact moment Katsuki Bakugou looked less like a bully who tormented Izuku all those years, and more like one of those starving fauntlings who wandered off Hobbiton that harsh winter and never came back. They turned into tiny graves under the shade of the Hill, and Bilbo wouldn't be able to live with himself if Kacchan had turned into a tiny grave and he hadn't done anything to avert it.

Bilbo said none of this. “I wasn't sure what came over me, sir,” he said simply and quietly. “I beg your pardon. I have acted most irresponsibly.”

“No need to go overly formal on me, young man,” said All Might, steepling his fingers. “Not knowing what came over you, huh? I thought as much.”

It was not his place to look proudly in All Might's eyes and take credit for what he did, Bilbo thought, because it was a place meant for Izuku. But Bilbo couldn't help looking up.

“When I said 'no you can't be a hero', it is not out of arrogance,” said All Might. “It's because nine times out of ten people wanting to get into the business of heroes think only of the fame and the glory, or a misguided desire of empowerment. Because few if any ever think of the danger we face; the personal sacrifice we make; _what it means to be a hero._ ”

He lowered his voice and leaned closer towards Bilbo. “That is not a burden I would not wish on my _enemies,_ ” he said.

Bilbo should not have felt disappointed. He had no stake in the matter; it was Izuku who would have been devastated. But here he was looking at the table and tears were flowing out of his eyes and as far as Bilbo knew his emotion was real. “I... understand, sir,” he said.

“I haven't finished, young man,” said All Might. “You, on the other hand... _'I don't know what came over me'_ you said? That is how so many of the finest heroes out there began: Something happened, and their body moved faster than they could think. Being a hero isn't about the quirk or the costume or the theatrics; it's about doing what is _right_.”

In another timeline Izuku would have wept and scream “Yes, please” at the words he was saying - “Young man, you too can become a hero.” At the silhouette of All Might, emaciated yet steadfast like a statue, set against the sundown.

In this timeline, it was Bilbo Baggins in Izuku's shoes, making every attempt to act in his boy's best interest.

So when All Might said, “How would you think to become my successor?” Bilbo didn't answer. He was going to leave it to the man (well, boy) to decide himself.

Because it was not his decision to make.

“May I ask for one day?” he said.

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes:
> 
> \- The entire "diary" session is based on a lesser-known event in the history of the Shire: The Fell Winter of Shire Reckoning 1311-1312 (Third Age 2911-2912), which took place well within Bilbo's early life (the hobbit himself was born in SR 1290, meaning he should be 21-22 years old by the FW). This is known to be a particularly harsh winter that resulted in white wolves crossing the frozen rivers into the Shire. On the other hand, it wasn't the only, first or even worst event of such type: the Long Winter of SR 1158 - 1159 (TA 2758 - 2759) was worse, resulted in thousands of deaths across Eriador and Rohan, and was also the natural disaster that convinced Gandalf of the good nature and resilience of the hobbits as a people.  
> \- From what I gather, Gandalf and the Rangers of the North did lend assistance to the hobbits in the aftermaths of the Fell Winter, and given the hobbits' obsession with food and getting enough of it, it makes little sense to me how canon that Bilbo's memories of Gandalf wasn't linked to this event but to his fireworks and toys (the counterargument is, of course, that Gandalf offered help anonymously, as would the rangers in the North). I am using my interpretation: That Bilbo did take note of this event and of Gandalf's assistance, because it would add more depth to Bilbo as a character.


	3. An Unexpected Delay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very big thank-you to everyone who has read and kudosed!
> 
> As for the chapter, suffice to say when the tag said 'minor tinkering with timelines', I might actually be underestimating it a mite...

**CHAPTER 2**

**AN UNEXPECTED DELAY**

 

The first thing to come across Izuku's mind waking up was a desire to return to Bag End again. No,  _ desire  _ wasn't the right word: more like that childhood excitement when you'd done something unexpected and couldn't wait seeing your elders' reaction, for better or worse. 

The next thing he did was glance across whatever notes Bilbo had left for him. A pang of curiosity hit him: Bilbo had written him no pen-and-paper note like he'd prefer. Instead his smartphone was filled with five new quiknote files all filled to capacity. And it showed: the fastidious hobbit was making spelling errors left and right.

That, however, was quickly the  _ least  _ of Izuku's worries. 

_ “It is my desire that you remain calm (or as calm as you can manage under the circumstance). I shall be as concise as I can.” _

In ten seconds flat any immediate thought of Bag End vanished from his mind.

_ “I met All Might.” _

Izuku's eyes widened.

_“And helped save your Kacchan from a villain attack.”_

A gasp escaped his wide open mouth.

_ “And All Might, well... he is in a bad way so to speak. He wants me – as in  _ you – _ to become his apprentice.” _

Izuku's phone fell on the bed with a dull thud, and so did his jaw.

_“I told him I shall answer him tomorrow. Which means, respectively, you, and today, my dear lad.”_

Izuku's heart started beating faster than his chest could contain.

_ “The choice is up to you.” _

This was when something snapped inside Izuku. He wanted to scream: in fact he was sure he  _ had  _ screamed. Except that his ears caught nothing more than a whimper and when he opened his eyes again he was in a corner of his bed in cold sweat, choking and drowning in  _ so many thoughts.  _

It took him half a morning to collect himself enough to function as a person again, and the other half just to read everything else Bilbo had kindly noted him.

Even in his halfway catatonic state, Izuku could vaguely understand his life would never be the same again.

***

The first thing to come across Bilbo's mind waking up was a sort of anxiousness he had not experienced often. Not, at least, since his favorite cousin Bungo came down with a nasty grippe many years before.

The next thing he did was glance across whatever notes Izuku had left him, and couldn't think anything but how deeply sorry he was that Izuku would have to deal with the fallout of the previous day's event. Well, sorry for Izuku, not sorry that Bilbo had done what he'd done: because to be a hobbit meant to perform good deeds in good faith and at no time he'd done anything but.

And then he read Izuku's note, and a good chunk of that sympathy vanished, in its place a 'I really should have disciplined him better somehow.' Shutting the door on a wizard? Look up his journals without leave? What an unpleasantly inadequate display of hospitality and propriety!

Izuku Midoriya would have found himself grounded the next time they switch had Bilbo known how to.

But then as Bilbo was making himself an enormously delicious traditional toad-in-the-hole for breakfast a thought flashed in his mind. No, make it two streams of thoughts, each rather benign but together would spell immense trouble.

Thought the first, Gandalf had singled _him_ out for an adventure, and if what his mother had said was true Gandalf always had a way to _convince_ you. That meant Bilbo was going on an adventure, unsavory as the concept might be.

Thought the second, the possibility that Izuku would _not_ take up All Might's offer was less than the sun not rising in the East.

Which was all fine and good until Bilbo delved a little deeper beneath the surface.

All Might was this giant of a man who made an ordinary Big Folk look like a wee old Harfoot. His power consisted of punching things and blowing them away in one punch or two.

Izuku was just taller than a Fallohide and half as thick-bodied. Goodness, Bilbo had a feeling he could beat Izuku in a contest of armwrestle!

The natural conclusion was that if Izuku was to inherit All Might's power, the boy would be changed so much, _physically speaking_ , as to render him unrecognizable.

And that was a horrifying, nasty, harrowing thought.

What, for instance, would Bilbo do if he suddenly grew three feet taller and ten stones more muscular overnight? Most likely he would scream and wail and cry out for his mother. And he was a grown hobbit and before that a very stable and normal (wealthy notwithstanding) fauntling, neither of which could be said about Izuku.

Bilbo decided over delicious toad-in-the-hole and aromatic tea that _this was where he would come in._

And that meant a few businesses to handle in preparation.

***

Six p.m.

That was the deadline All Might had given Izuku – or rather, Bilbo Baggins in Izuku's flesh.

It was now four in the afternoon. The day had passed by in a blur, and not just because Izuku's brain and guts were both in knots. Space Shuttle Midoriya Izuku had long returned to earth.

He'd just found out that functioning on a human being level was one thing, and actually thinking clearly for the decision of his life was another matter entirely.

It was not that he was not thinking at all; more like the contrary. Izuku was thinking _too much_.  For a teenage boys often the most recurring thoughts were also the most unconstructive. In Izuku's case, those were, respectively, ' _I wasn't there when Kacchan was in danger_ ', ' _Is it true that All Might has been so weakened?'_ and ' _Do I deserve the opportunity?'_

Those thoughts only intensified as he clicked that 'replay' button on his Youtube tab for the fifty sixth time (he counted). 

Someone had recorded and posted a video of that confrontation in the street with the slime monster Bilbo described. 

If a picture was worth a thousand words, video footage was worth a million: There Bilbo was, expertly weaving himself in between the debris and the fire and the smoke. He came close to twenty yards in front of the monster, completely blindsiding it, and then just flung... something, at its eye. And then he started  _taunting_ the villain over the phone and give Kacchan the opening to one, not choke to death, and two, blow chunks out of it before All Might swept in and saved the day.

In that one moment, his body-mate was almost as cool as All Might was, and therefore a thousand times cooler than Izuku could have ever hoped to be.

He could not _possibly_ be mad at Bilbo for saving his childhood friend and earning him the chance of a lifetime while looking like awesomeness incarnated. 

He could, however, feel so darned  _inadequate_ about himself as to hide in his room for the rest of his life and never come out.

Well, not to that extreme, but he had been indulging himself in his two favorite pastimes of pacing about his room and mumbling for most of the day, only stopping once for a wordless lunch and twice more for the bathroom breaks. He was biting his lips and feeling like a ten-ton weight in his gut. Once every so often he'd stop, and he'd natter on and on to himself about how he'd been a terrible friend and how he really should turn down All Might because he hadn't earned this once-in-a-lifetime chance.

Because a hero meant to save people in need and to behave in a way that should ooze _integrity_ , and he had been doing neither, right? Right?

 _“In hindsight, my good lad, it would seem almost like I have robbed you of a chance meant for you and you alone to grasp,”_ Bilbo had written, and Izuku could picture so clearly the hobbit speaking in that fruity voice of his, good-natured yet mirthless (or perhaps mirthless _because_ he was good-natured and would have consequently know how much his act of heroism had put Izuku in this uncomfortable place).

_No, Bilbo, you haven't done anything wrong. You've done me a favor bigger than I've ever had!_

So big, indeed, that the feeling of being inferior kept buried all those years under the mountain of stories and songs and poems was breaking through the surface and rearing its ugly head again. 

What should he do?

Should he stay put where he was and imagine this business hadn't happened?

Should he pay All Might a courtesy call and politely turn him down, citing extenuating circumstances?

Should he do the above, but tell the idol of his life the truth of his condition and the fact that it was not _him_ but _the other him_ that did all the impressive stuff? 

Or should he gleefully seize the day anyway, because it as such an unimaginable chance and Izuku's brain nearly locked up just trying to wrap itself around how monumentally incredible inheriting _All Might's power_ actually was?

Izuku normally prided himself in his ability to analyze and make plans. His plan today, however, was to take a walk to the nearby park, clear his head, make up his mind, and then decide. Probably ' _no_ ' or ' _could you give me even more time please please please please?_ ' or even ' _yes, but with so much crushing self-guilt I shall leave Tokyo, flee to a new township and start a new life altogether_ '. Never mind the last one making no sense.

As were most plans involving himself, Izuku's intention was not meant to be.

Because no sooner had he completed his first lap around the park than he saw _him._

A normal person would have never suspected, but him? Someone who could draw All Might's hairstyle from memory, and who had been tipped off about it?

Izuku there saw All Might, skeletal and ruefully diminished, sitting cross-legged and cross-armed in the park, under the shade of an old tree. Something inside him promptly shattered.

Whatever was intact of his still boyish heart told him to walk towards, rather than away from, the hero of his childhood.

***

“Master Baggins! What a pleasure!”

The young chirpy gardener said, tipping his hat, setting his pitchfork aside and strode towards the fence where Bilbo was waiting. “I didn't know you were coming, of course, otherwise I'd have put on a kettle and some cake or two!”

“Sure you would, Hamfast my lad,” Bilbo said. It was yet another good morning, though Bilbo had to admit the event of the past day had seemingly made the sun a bit less bright and the grass less green in his eyes.

Well, at least Hamfast Gamgee was still steadfast and jolly, and that was good. He had ever been a good lad in Bilbo's eyes, aside from being a bit of a rascal who'd married before his official 'coming of age'. Trustworthy (though a bit paranoid for his age), and more skilled with things that grew (especially potatoes) than most, too.

So it was no surprise that the scruffy-haired lad was Bilbo's trusted destination to ask after Gandalf's whereabouts. Pleasantries was simple enough, and Bilbo was smiling and grinning and shaking his hands while asking after his parents, his wife and his extended family, and how his apprenticeship with Greenhand was going.

But then his fruity smile vanished, and he looked Hamfast Gamgee in the eye and said “Did Gandalf come around these parts the other day?”

Bilbo's lack of decorum surprised himself long before it surprised Hamfast.

“What happened, my dear Master Baggins?” asked the gardener.

“I came across the wizard a couple days back,” said Bilbo, “and I thought it would be prudent to speak to him at greater length. I thought you'd know if he is still around.”

“Why, Master Baggins, but of course!”  said Hamfast, and he was suitably anxious about the matter. “I thought I should have asked you! He came over to Bag End yesterday, if you recall? Surely you have had a good long talk with him? No offense meant, but you aren't quite old enough to claim senility yet!”  The young fellow was fiddling his thumb and biting his lip and making a show of quivering. 

Bilbo couldn't blame him well too much: too young to see Gandalf making magic with his firework or giving people miraculous toys, or – and this part was more important – actually  _ saving  _ Hobbiton that winter. 

Besides, it wasn't like wizards (and rangers, and their elven friends, and the Big Folk who dwelt to the East and South beyond the safety of the Brandywine) ever had the best of reputations as keepers of the peace or upholders of the respectable way of life in the idyllic Shire to begin with.

“Well, as a matter of fact,” said Bilbo “I... entreated him with a tad less decorum than is befitting of my station.”  _ Because of a teenage boy throwing a tantrum, justified as it might be.  _ “I thought it would be prudent to greet him once more and let him know my lack of hospitality was due more to his catching me in a bad time, than any ill manner evident in my personality!”

That account was actually closer to the truth than Bilbo thought it would be – at least something went right for a change!

Hamfast's expression lightened. “Probably that way in the Green Dragon, Master Baggins,” he said. “Least that's where he claimed to be staying that last time he came about to find you!”

Bilbo raised a brow. “Really now?” he said. “You never told me this, my dear Hamfast!”

“Well, I thought it nothing important, really,” said the apprentice gardener. “He came this way months ago, too. Bebothered and confuddled both Master Greenhand and meself, asking for you,” he added. “I thought to shoo him off, because wizards mean bad news, Master Baggins, but Master Greenhand was nothing but utmostly courteous! Fear of being cursed into a toad no doubt, and for once I thought he had some sense in him!”

“Well, I think the wizard must have had business serious enough,” said Bilbo, and he meant it – even without Izuku's notes it would have been obvious that it behooved him somehow to seek out Hobbiton of all places in a hurry.  _And, speaking of Izuku-_ “I suppose I should be off while the morning's still good. Anyone asks, my dear Hamfast,” he said. “I'm out for a stroll to Bywater Lake and back. I'm getting old; some exercise once every so often would do wonders to these bones!”

“Oh, surely you jest, Master Baggins,” said Hamfast with a grin. “So long as you keep yourself clear of the business of wizards, you'd have years upon years of health and affluence ahead of you!”

Hamfast waved his employer goodbye, and Bilbo waved back. Except Bilbo's thoughts were somewhere else and therefore not in the current act of waving:  _And who_ , went his thought _, would keep me free of the business of Izuku Midoriya?_

He'd sighed half a dozen time before he'd left the comfort of Hobbiton behind for the moment. _Goodness gracious, I'm sounding like a real father now._

The thought brought to his face a grin broader than any other he'd had in a while.

***

Most of his childhood had been spent under the impression that All Might's power was ridiculously broken.

Now he realized All Might himself was  _literally_ broken and his willpower was only enough to stop him breaking down in tears. 

Bilbo's note had detailed, although a thousand words probably could not convey the right image, of  _what_ had happened to All Might and what sort of injuries he was sustaining. In one word, he looked  _skeletal_ . His face was sharply triangular now, which made his magnificent hair look even more out of place like a helmet on a skull too small. His neck now looked too long and his shoulders too collapsed. He looked shorter now, and more bent.

Very briefly a random thought passed through Izuku's head, and he wondered which was worse: have your childhood idol turn out to be a self-serving jerk, or have the same be a man true to his ideal and suffering because of it. 

“A-All Might, sir!” was all he could manage. Was his voice shaky? He was of the impression that he couldn't be more resolute if he tried, but why did his word sound so uncertain, so afraid, so... ashamed to his ears?

“Ah, so you've come, young Midoriya. A bit too early; but that's fine. To be a hero means to arrive before you are expected, after all, 'm I right?”

True enough, his hero was looking at him, diminished as he was. His gaze swept over him for what seemed like an eternity. Was he being judged? Most probably. After all, he'd meant for Izuku to become his  _successor_ . Inheritor of this one power coveted by virtually every other on the face of the planet. And... and Izuku had not  _earned_ it. Worse, he could have been the worst kind of villain in making, and All Might might not even know.

Unless, of course, he  _had_ , and Izuku's knees felt like buckling at the thought.

Dread welled up within Izuku – a shameful disturbing concept, because 'dread' and 'All Might' were two words never to be uttered in the same paragraph much less sentence. Izuku was feeling like a pressure cooker filled with water left on a hot stove, a scream just about to burst out of his throat, the skin on his face tingling, his breathing on the brink of stopping.

But then All Might's bony lips – the part that could pass for lips anyway – moved. His skeletal face did not look like it could smile any more, but there was a palpable attempt he could feel. To make Izuku feel more at home with himself.

“So, I take it you have made your choice, young Midoriya?” he said.

“Uh... I... Ah!” mumbled Midoriya.

In hindsight, he should have thought about it longer. He should have mulled over the options more and weighed absolutely everything. By whatever deity and spirit out there, perhaps he should have even said 'no I can't' or any variation thereof.

But this was important: Izuku might be timid and not the most sociable flower in the bouquet, but he  _knew_ when someone was pleading or needing help, whether or not they voiced it out loud. Like that time Kacchan fell into that brook. And if he'd been there when Kacchan was taken by the slime villain, he would have known he needed help too.

As it happened, Midoriya Izuku's eyes met All Might's gaze. At once he knew his compassion – along with if not even more so than his desire to be  _like_ All Might – would not have allowed him any other option.

“Yes, sir!” he cried.

He would do it, because All Might was needing a hand in his own way and right now he was the only one who could lend him that hand.

Because helping those in need was not only what heroes did, but what  _hobbits_ did, too. Deep down, Izuku had become something of an honorary hobbit, though he knew better than to parade it in public. 

Besides, there was something in All Might's gaze that resembled a challenge too: his triangular jaw was clenched, as if _daring_ Izuku to strive hard. _Go beyond_. Become more than what he was.

Because earning an opportunity was one thing. Turning it into something _more_ than just an opportunity was another entirely.

“Yes, sir!” he cried again, and never looked back.

***

All Might has seen more than his fair share of mysteries in his lifetime, thank you very much, yet the boy in front of him was giving him pause. Enough to, for the briefest of moments, want some sort of a mind-reading quirk so he would know exactly what was going on under that messy mass of green curls.

Because that moment he seemed like a completely different person from the one he saw yesterday. Less confident. Less mature. More jittery. More... self-loathing, for lack of better words. The one he saw yesterday had the emotional control to throw a smartphone dead on a villain's eye from a dozen paces and still had it in him to make up a sassy “Bilbo Baggins” persona. This one... well, he wouldn't say this version of Izuku would be incapable of heroics if push came to shove, but All Might would be lying to himself if he didn't feel a little cheated.

“So what shall it be?” he asked, and purposefully looked him in the eye.

And to his surprise that feeling he'd caught yesterday facing the boy was awoken again, as if he'd drawn strength from some place hidden away like a retired couple's nest egg. He looked back at All Might with those large round eyes of his, once more full of drive and vigor. “Yes, sir,” he yelled, and at once All Might's doubt subsided.

But there was one last thing he wanted to make clear. Blood rushed to his face, and poof! Once again he was All Might the Symbol of Peace, grinning as if there was nothing he could not overcome.

“Excellent!” he yelled. “The real question is, of course, are you ready and willing to do what it takes?”

_Oh? The boy's face brightened? Now isn't that a surprise?_

“I am ready, sir!” cried the boy.

“Even if it is months upon months of hard work?”

“Even more ready, sir!”

“Even if you would be pushed to your limit and maybe over it even?”

“Never readier, sir!”

To say All Might was curious would be a gross understatement. “Interesting. I noticed you haven't asked me  _why,_ ” he said. “Young men your age don't really like to take 'you don't need to know' for an answer, do they now?”

“It's... it's because...” The boy's fists clenched and shook, and tears streamed from his eyes. “It is because I didn't deserve such a chance, sir! But I... I'll do everything I can and even more if I need to, because I want to make myself  _deserving_ of it! B-because... because... Plus Ultra; isn't that U.A.'s motto?”

All Might's enormous brows furrowed.  _Deserving?_

And then it dawned upon him just  _why_ this perfectly fine, courageous, courteous and clever young man would think that.  _Oh. Right. Because he is my biggest fan. Because he is a_ quirkless _boy who is my biggest fan. How could I have not realized that much?_

“U.A., huh,” he said.

All Might's mind wandered to a faraway place: decades ago, where he was in the same place.  _Nana... is this how you felt back then? Faced with a boy who would carry the torch in this endless struggle for a better society?_

But then the boy shrank a little, awkwardly his the tips of two pointer fingers touched. “Uh... but... I would really really _really_ appreciate it if you could-” His respiration function appeared to have ceased functioning; fortunately for just a couple seconds. “-could tell me what I have to do? I-in detail?”

_Ask, and you shall receive._ He produced from his slung-over bag a document, hastily produced over that one sleepless night, and gave it to the boy. 

“Like I've told you yesterday, One For All is... shall we say  _incredibly_ demanding on the body. I could pass you my quirk right now, but then your body will just explode into pieces trying to use it.” He looked a the boy ooh- and ah-ing at the document. “It's like you said: Plus Ultra. You want to get into U.A., correct? Then have no fear, because I'm here: this American Dream Plan will hone your body into that tip-top shape you need to pass the exam into U.A. and inherit One For All!”

With forceful but shaky hands the young Midoriya took over the draft.

A moment passed in dead silence, except for the turning of paper.

All Might did not tell Izuku this, but the training regime he had drafted was a mite on the harsher side even for seasoned body-builders. Given the lack of time and just how intense One For All could be, this was their best shot. All Might didn't rule out the possibility the boy would be daunted by the workload either. 

And then Midoriya Izuku's eyes lit up like shooting stars, and All Might knew his worries had been laughably superfluous.

“I'm ready when you are, sir!”

*******

One of the risks of being immortal, ordained by greater beings  _ and  _ saddled with a struggle of such scope as to diminish everything else, was that you would start viewing other folk as more pawns on a cosmic chessboard than actual people. 

And what was the point of going the extra mile to treat non-elves like actual people? Gandalf had been there long before they were born, and would be around long after they had passed on. That was, at least, what the darkest part of Gandalf would have told him; the very part that coveted power and control as much as Sauron and Morgoth Bauglir before him.

To struggle with that flaw of his own, so deadly and terrible as it was, for all eternity was as much what it meant to be an Istar as his actual mission. Because history had repeatedly proven the Enemy was not insurmountable; what was much harder was to vanquish him without becoming like him. Not helped by how, by Eru's will, he had had to tangle with the most unpleasant and obstinate of folks sometimes.

Then only exception, of course, were hobbits: diminutive yet good-hearted and repeatedly proving how they might not be the craftiest or the strongest or sturdiest but when the chips were down they were  _ something  _ not to be underestimated. If only they'd be a bit less passive, perhaps the world would have been a better place. 

That was why Gandalf had had to be subtle – if not outright manipulative in harsher words – at times. Like this time. As soon as the dwarves had gathered he would send them off to Bilbo Baggins's house, and there nudge him into going on this adventure with him. Because how else would he get the respectable hobbit to leave his so very comfortable home and set off into the wilds?

So when Bilbo Baggins came barging in through the Green Dragon's rickety wooden door, huffing and in a hurry, Gandalf could not help but utter a quiet 'oh?'

“Master Gandalf,” said him, picking out the wizard from the very doorway (which wasn't so surprising – the wizard was sticking out like a sore thumb in an inn full of creatures half his size).

He walked so briskly towards the table Gandalf was sitting at, and extended his hand and smiled that diplomatic hobbitish smile. “It is fortunate to still catch you in these parts while I can! I had thought I've so offended you yesterday that you'd decided to leave!” he said. “My apologies for being obstinate at times!”

“Well now, my dear Mister Baggins,” said Gandalf and tipped his hat. “Your apology is well accepted – and maybe I have some apologizing of my own to do for barging into your quiet life unbidden!” He was sincere about it, too. It was almost unfathomable how walls would break down when one side would decide to break down pretensions first.

“At any rate,” said Bilbo, gesturing towards the chair opposite to Gandalf. He sat himself down as soon as the wizard nodded. “I recall you were talking about an adventure yesterday.”

“In fact, I was,” said Gandalf. “And like I said, it would be most profitable for you and amusing for me if you would join this undertaking.”

“And I would not object,” he said, and his eyes were bright. “I would only ask that you allow me some time to deal with matters of my... my family.”

Gandalf looked over the gigantic mug at Bilbo. “And why would you ask that, if I should be curious?”

“Because, well, my good sir, you're Gandalf and Gandalf means you, and that means once you've set your heart to do something you  _ will  _ get it done – because it's certainly a good cause in the first place,” said Bilbo. “So the more I think the more I realized maybe you've  _ really  _ wanted me on this adventure for some very good reason beyond profit and amusement. So it isn't like I can refuse and be done with it, is it?”

The reason was rather obvious: Belladonna's fauntling, who'd cowered in Bag End looking out and taking notes during that harsh winter (because what else could a fauntling in such times, really?) had grown when Gandalf wasn't looking.

While he'd bet his entire stock of Old Toby's that Bilbo would not admit it if his life depended on it, the Tookish side of him had already lit up: like a mountain of firewood rekindled by a speck of ember. A tiny pang of good-humored regret lingered within the wizard: that he and the quest he was planning couldn't take credit for that actual rekindling. 

Except something didn't quite add up.

“That isn't what you told me yesterday, my good Master Baggins,” said Gandalf. “What could have made you change your mind?”

Bilbo grinned. “I suppose a few pipes of premium Old Toby's, a good dinner and a long night's rest can do wonders unclouding your mind.”

“Well that isn't what you told me yesterday either, Master Baggins,” said Gandalf. “You said you've given up the pipe because it is bad for your lungs!”

For the briefest of moment Gandalf saw Bilbo's brows standing on ends and there was this expression on his face not unlike a bumbling father finding out his boy had broken the family's best heirloom chinaware.

But then Bilbo Baggins dusted some invisible specks off the shoulder of his travel-vest. “Ah, well, yes, sort of,” said him with a cough. “Sometimes... the craving comes back, you see. Old Toby's isn't something you can say 'give up' and it will be so.”

_Ah, there it is._

“Do I concur with the thought!” said Gandalf with a huge grin. So that was how it was. Gandalf wouldn't censure Bilbo for a lack of willpower when it came to quitting pipeweed to be sure: because Gandalf himself would have failed in that task.

“Anyway, like I said,” Bilbo said, and his face shifted towards a more stern and business-like demeanor in the flick of an eye. “If I am truly meant to join in this adventure, Master Gandalf, I would only ask for some more time.”

“Events are already in motion, my good sir,” said Gandalf. “And I am of the opinion that postponement is ill fortune and ill wise.”

Bilbo placed both hands on the table. “In which case it is-” He drew a still breath and stuttered exactly once. “it is as I said yesterday: I shall not be part of this enterprise of yours.” There was calmness and steel in his voice. “You were a legend in your own ways, as  _ queer  _ as they might be, Mister Gandalf. Surely you would be able to make do, if your quest is so great and your need so urgent?”

Now Gandalf was caught at a quandary.

He had expected the hobbit's compliance, and not through coercion. Such was not the way of the Istari. He was to nudge him, a gentle-hobbit who'd grown too comfortable and sedentary, towards a more adventurous course and let his Tookish nature do the rest: because ordinary folks ill liked changes too drastic unless convinced. But outright force him? No, Gandalf would not do so – and not just because he was inordinately fond of the hobbits in general and the Baggins clan in particular. No, he would not do so – because that was how the Enemy came to be and how the Enemy conducted himself.

Gandalf briefly considered the question of what had made the hobbit so decisive in the first place, and decided it wasn't exactly a _question_ at all. He had seen this before, not just in poor Belladonna Baggins and not just during those days and months on the road away from creature comfort. Hobbits could be tenacious creatures when they had something they needed to protect and nurture.

Hobbits were full of surprises, but of the sort that any kind-hearted person could sympathize with.

He picked up the mug and took a thoughtful sip. “If I asked you how much time you need, Master Baggins, what shall you say?” he said.

For a moment the hobbit counted off his finger. “I need to stay in Hobbiton for about another year, ideally speaking” he said. “Though if you'd come back in three-quarters I should – again, ideally speaking – have dealt with matters halfway adequately.”

He didn't seem very much certain about the actual time span, but his adamance on the matter was clear. But a year? Well, now that would throw a stick into most of Gandalf's plan.

Then again,  _not_ having Bilbo in the in would throw a bigger stick into said plans.  _ Manwe King of the West, what is your humble servant to do? _

_Hold it. That... actually might not be a bad idea._

So Gandalf gathered all of his wizardly air about him, and harrumphed loud and clear. “What would you say if I came back in a year, with a contract and all as to your like? Will you sign it?”

Again the hobbit folded his arms and tilted his head. Wrinkles formed on his forehead, and his lips were twisting in odd shapes. Finally he closed his eyes, drew a stiff breath, and opened them again. “You have my word, Master Gandalf,” he said, and laughed that deep fruity hobbitish laugh. “I am a Baggins of Bag End, after all.” He paused. “Though I should be glad if you would sent to my mailbox the details of this adventure of yours. What I am to do, the company, arrangements, expenses, fees and the like. When in doubt, best to make ready for everything!”

“And I should be your servant in this matter, now that you've made the effort,” said Gandalf, and he meant it. Once again he'd underestimated the thoroughness of well-bred hobbits, and a pleasant surprise it had been.

In a way Bilbo had made Gandalf's work harder, yes, but easier as well. For one, the journey to Erebor, putting the matter like it was, had been very hastily drafted and that would have no doubt invited complications. And for the other? A mature hobbit who knew what he was doing was so much more likely to work well with a motley crew of ill-tempered dwarves cobbled from all walks of their exile.

That, however, would be a thought for later. Now? He had an impatient, crownless and irrationally elf-hating dwarf-king to placate and many an important folk to contact...

***

 

 


	4. Roast Mutton and One For All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for their kind support!
> 
> Canon divergence commences this chapter. Stay tuned for more!

**CHAPTER 3**

**ROAST MUTTON AND ONE FOR ALL**

 

Anyone who had survived self-inflicted hell would have this to tell you: that it became easier after the first few instances, the first few days, the first few bruises. When everything had become routine, when your body and mind had become used to the strain and the stress, as long as you wouldn't give up, force of habit alone would carry you through.

The problem, of course, was to survive until that critical point, and on that day Izuku thought he was going to die of exhaustion long before that.

A part of him felt a pang of regret as his sleepy legs dragged him to Dagoba that fine morning. By the time he saw what they were supposed to do, it  _ ballooned _ ; only to deflate when All Might crushed an old refrigerator into a compact trash plate while declaring how hero work was about putting the heart into it. 

So Izuku gave his all, because that was what he'd been spurred into doing.

By the time he was through with the day's cleaning and training (yes there were two components to it), Izuku was a dead boy walking. He didn't know how he actually got home. Did All Might carry him back? Or did he, with all his limbs and joints threatening to fall off the sockets and all his muscles crumbling into dust, somehow dragged himself home through force of will alone?

He suspected the former, but from the way All Might looked at him the next day, nodding with approval, it was likely the latter.

“Well now, ain't that a surprise,” said All Might, puffing himself back into his heroic build. “No complaint? No question? No 'I give up'?”

“No, sir,” went his answer. “I... I have to do my best! No, more than my best, more than my hundred percent! I'm already too far behind everyone else as is, sir!”

“More than a hundred percent! I like the sound of that!” 

All Might's smile normally meant “Everything is alright”.

In this context, it meant “Hell hath commenced.”

***

“ _ PLEASE RUN QUICKLY, ALL MIGHT IS WAITING! _ ”

The words flashing on the smartphone screen almost made Bilbo tumble out of the bed. All Might? Waiting? What was this all about? Wasn't the famed hero supposed to give Izuku his quirk and that was the end of that?

Bilbo spent the next half an hour reading Izuku's note: of what had happened the previous days, of his deal with All Might and, a mite too late, how the last few days had been hell and  _ oh four guardians deities of Japan preserve him, why was Bilbo still there reading? _

By the time he had done his homework (and therefore understood what was required of him), Bilbo wished he hadn't wasted all that time reading. 

He was half an hour late for the training with All Might.

“Well now, lad,” said All Might, and though he was smiling his tongue was nothing short of biting . “I thought you said you're going to give training your all yesterday? Suppose laziness is a tough dragon to slay, huh?”

“Err... well, sir, I overslept,” said Bilbo, and deep inside he felt like punching himself.

And so Bilbo's torture began. 

It was not just about the work itself: dragging garbage all across a long beach into a dump truck was menial labor and therefore not what Bilbo was used to, he'd give it that. Problem was hardly a couple of hours had passed when he lost count of how many well-meaning-but-snide comments All Might had tossed at him: words meant to really sting a fauntling and spur the hyperenergetic creatures to  _ work, darn it!  _

“Break a leg and hurry up now my  _ prince _ .”

“Shelves ain't gonna move themselves – ain't that sad?”

“Crate goes  _ on  _ the truck – no, that's not  _ on the truck _ , that's twenty inches too low for that!”

“Times like this makes you wish you've got a pulley or two, huh? Well, tough luck!”

Except, well, Bilbo wasn't a fauntling. He was a middle-aged, affluent, respectable hobbit who rarely ever got so insulted and especially not for such inane reasons! So he was miserable and he was grumbling and mumbling even as he was dragging and dragging and  _ dragging some more _ , and got dirt and mud and smudge all over his clothes.

As it happened, hobbits were not strong. But they were resilient, and never before had Bilbo been so thankful for that which he'd taken for granted all his life. As the sun was setting against the horizon, Bilbo had covered “less than half of the day's work load, precious.” But Bilbo was alive, though his arms were numb, his hands raw, his head ringing, his ears about to bleed, his legs dragging and his lungs about to collapse on themselves.

Now he had a choice. He could fling a snide remark back at All Might the Cruel, Torturer of Hobbits, Purveyor of Bad Humor, Fellest of Taskmasters and Chiefest of Adversities to Befall Bilbo son of Bungo Baggins.

Or he could leave it well enough, not for his own sake but for the boy who would take over the next day.

It was a no-brainer, really.

“I will do a better job tomorrow,” he said, and hoped Izuku could do at least that much. 

Bilbo didn't quite recall how he'd spent the rest of the day, except that he was reading the American Dream Plan for the third or fourth time when he lost consciousness altogether. It was the first time in a long, long while that Bilbo fell asleep slumped on the table, his entire body ringing out in pain. His greatest mystery remained unanswered: “ _ what is an American Dream, anyway? _ ”

***

When Bilbo Baggins woke up as himself again, the pain lingered on in his every tendon and ligament. This had not happened before and the hobbit couldn't help but be a little alarmed. Did that mean physical conditions he acquired in the other world would transfer back to him in his own world as well? And maybe vice versa?

Then again, he had never quite worked out half as much in a year as he had the previous day.

And then his eyes caught Izuku's notes and his heart skipped a beat. 

He'd fully expected Izuku to, if not throw a tantrum, then make a show of being angry at him for taking his place at training and making a right mess out of everything. All Might would probably be giving him hell right about now, and Bilbo suddenly felt himself so guilty and inadequate. 

So when he flipped the page to find it prefaced with “ _ I AM SO SORRY! _ ”, he almost jumped out of his seat; like he'd seen a wraith rumor'd to prowl the ruins of such old holdfasts of Arnor as once devastated by the Shadow yet in the North.

And then Bilbo read and read and reread everything Izuku wrote for him: a two-page apology for not having told Bilbo the whole thing with All Might beforehands (even though there was no way he could have done so), and offering to do anything, anything,  _ anything  _ the hobbit decided Izuku should do for Bilbo's homestead (even though he was more likely than not extremely exhausted himself).

When he was done, Bilbo was grinning, but his eyes were wet and he was ever so thankful to the ubiquitous force of habit, that a gentle-hobbit would not leave home without his handkerchief if he could. 

That was the moment Bilbo decided he had to up the ante on supporting the boy. If physical conditions were to transfer, he thought, then he had just the right thing for Izuku in mind.

“An army marches on its stomach,” quoted Bilbo. And that meant he'd better start that-a-way: Beginning with digging up the family wisdom on cooking. 

It just so turned out his father had a  _ treasure trove _ of the thing stocked in the study. Hardly abnormal, but surprising in its own way. His late father had never been much of a cook – few Hobbitish men were, as a rule – though he was fond of eating and towards the dusk of his life,  _ good  _ eating. 

It was well past time for elevensies when Bilbo finished his very initial foray into the art of cooking for maximum nutrition.

“The key to delicious, tasty and filling Hobbitish cooking for bright young farmhands,” he read out loud, “is mutton and beef, carefully picked, leaned and stewed; and eggs many and poached, not fried (pray that you don't break them!)”

There were other preparations as well. Preparations that needed to be drafted out in drawings and pictures. His aching hand picked up quill and stretched a sheet of paper; he worked up his love for maps and drawings, and there started sketching curious tools not often seen in polite hobbit company.

_ First we need wood, and then a lot of sand, and then plenty of linen; and someone to put all of them together... _

***

The bedside table was drowning in drawings and diagrams the next time Izuku showed up in Bilbo's guise. As per normal, he was greeted by Bilbo's notes. Given the lukewarm note apparently written under great fatigue the other day, the boy couldn't help but fear the very worst-

“ _Izuku, my good lad, I hope this note finds you in less bodily pain and discomfort (because cleaning up that beach is certainly not meant for a boy to do alone).”_

Bilbo was not angry with him. Izuku's eyes widened, and his heart thumped and thumped and thumped some more. Bilbo. Was. Not. Angry. With. Him. 

_“I have a proposition: Let us do this more cleverly_ and  _harder rather than merely harder.”_

And then it became obvious _what_ Bilbo had actually meant by that. Walking into the garden treated Izuku to a distinctly un-hobbit-like sight: Bilbo had converted a chunk of his yard into a training ground. Whether he did so alone or with other people's folks was anyone's guess, though he'd told Izuku not to worry too much about how it came to be.

There was a crossbar and weights to be lifted, and a solid wooden crate the size of a hobbit-sized bookcase filled with sand on smoothed ground to be pushed and pulled. There was a sandbag, too, of linen stained with so many hobbitish finger-prints and knuckle-prints hung over a very sturdy frame. The cords were wrapped in layers of linen, as were the crossbars, obviously so that he wouldn't hurt his hands.

But that wasn't the biggest surprise.

No, that would be what he discovered in the kitchen. There, inside the stove lay an absolutely gigantic bowl of mutton-and-egg stew, and chopped basil and thyme and onions and a dozen other kinds of spices and herbs. “ _Add everything to the stew and leave it to simmer for an hour, and there you go,_ ” went the note stuck under the chopping board.

There were other notes, too: “ _Apply to your arms and legs and wherever there might be bruises,_ ” was pinned to the dressing-table upon which a jar of pungent-smelling balm sat. “ _But better to think about the kind of exercise you've been doing and_ why _it hurts,”_ put on the rocking-chair in the study. And later in the day, when Izuku was about to take a hot bath, he found “ _Good luck and godspeed, my dear lad,_ ” on the towel rack.

All of them pointed to one thing: He was to work hard, and when he was tired and worn out and couldn't carry on, there was Bag End and its comfort – a pitch stop for a day of rest, relax, refuel.

Izuku could swear nothing he had ever eaten (spoken though a true fan of his mother's cooking he might be) would beat the stew, that melted in his mouth and carried with it the taste and aroma of herbs and spices that grew upon the rolling hills under the sunshine of the Shire. Midoriya Izuku went to bed that day with a belly full, his muscles strained then soothed then strained again, and a face wet with tears of joy.

He woke up the next day more energized and spirited than a boy of fourteen years being worked halfway to death had any right to be.

***

And it was in such ways that ten months passed by in a blink of an eye, and Bilbo suspected the exercising had something to do with it.

He had been unable to flawlessly replicate the “American Dream Plan”; but the program he had devised for himself was as close to perfect mimicry as he could manage. When Izuku was to lift, he also lifted. When the boy had to haul garbage, he dragged the sand-filled crate. When the boy would jog around his neighborhood, Bilbo's bare feet made their marks many more laps around Bagshot Row than he could count. And of course there was those times he was actually doing Izuku's work for him, because there were only two certainties in Bilbo's life nowadays – certain annoying relatives and body-switches.

At first the sheer amount of strenuous physical exertion made Bilbo feel like his body was being forcibly rearranged every day one bone after another. Then it became endurable. Then something almost routine, if not fun in its diversion from the lifestyle of a quintessential hobbit of letter.

It had become even more of a diversion when Bilbo realized All Might, for all his taunting, somewhat of a hobbit in the trappings of the other world's mightiest hero: good-hearted, optimistic and witty if well-humored. Hobbitish dry humor was not only accepted but welcomed, and once every so often All Might would flash this world-saving superhero smile at Bilbo-wearing-Izuku's-flesh and say, “Young man, you can save lives with that wit!”; and Bilbo would pat himself on the back for a job well done. And then he would return to hauling garbage, which had become less of a demanding chore with every passing week.

Soon summer gave way for autumn, autumn for winter, and winter shifted into spring again. One fine morning Bilbo was sitting in his chair outside the round green door again, allowing himself a rare smoke of the pipes as he surveyed the fine morning about him: the sun was shining, the grass swaying in the breeze, and birds chirping in the canopy above. 

It was then that he saw Gandalf the wizard once more, shuffling along the winding Bagshot Row under the shade of the oak trees. He was wearing an extra layer of travel cloak, worn and dusty, and his travel stick was just a little more bent than the last time they met. Apart from those he was largely the same, silvery beard tucked in silvery belt, as though locked in his old-wizen-advisor form for all eternity. That was the Gandalf Bilbo knew, and the Gandalf who kept to his words – mostly.

“Good morning!” shouted Bilbo, and tipped his hat. 

“Good morning indeed, Master Bilbo Baggins,” said the wizard. He looked at Bilbo, then his eyes followed the smoke-rings Bilbo had been blowing. “I see you've given up giving up Old Toby's!”

Bilbo grinned, and blew himself another very enormous smoke-ring that rose to the bough above. “Knowing when to renounce a lost cause, my good Master Gandalf, is a mark of wisdom,” he said.

“I should think so,” said Gandalf, and approached the fence. He produced from his person a little envelope. “I had a thought to leave this to the post-hobbits, but then correspondence for certain matters needs a certain level of... measured confidentiality. Here's your mail for the day, Master Baggins.” Then he smiled like the kindly old man he was, and wait for Bilbo to open his envelope. 

There was a contract, affixed with a makeshift seal and dwarven runes. “ _ Thorin and Company _ ?” Bilbo read them out loud, “ _ To Master Burglar Bilbo Baggins greetings _ ? And these runes... these folks are dwarves, aren't they, Master Gandalf?”

“Why, yes, that's our 'client'. Certainly not the very best of their stock (and their kind have once enjoyed some spectacular individuals just so you are aware), but clearly among the boldest and most given to this quest!” said Gandalf. “Their quest has been delayed by one year because of your family business, yet evidently they are still quite eager to hire you for your services.”

“I should be thankful,” said Bilbo, and suddenly there was a bit of guilt that reared up in his heart – which he promptly crushed.  _ Izuku is more important _ , he told himself.

“Oh, and just so you are aware, Master Baggins,” said Gandalf. “I strongly recommend making ready for a party of thirteen dwarves. Rowdy, hearty and highly partial to alcohol – strong and plentiful if you have it. Probably round this time next month, maybe earlier. Do keep your pantry stocked just in case!” 

Bilbo Baggins nodded. After all, he had prepared meals for a hungry, physically exhausted  _ gourmand  _ of a teenage boy for a year. 

_ Bring on the dwarves _ .

_ *** _

When winter shifted into spring again, Midoriya Izuku was crushing the last of the trash on the beach. Figuratively, and at times literally. He'd gotten  _ that  _ much stronger. 

Of course it was not all  _ him _ : Bilbo Baggins had been, to his best estimate, responsible for at least a fifth of the beach; more if Izuku was to account for how the hobbit's fastidiousness had made life much easier for him. Sorting out garbage was one third a matter of organization and two third strength, and Bilbo had been happily taking care of Izuku's share of the first. 

That just meant Izuku had to push himself harder into supplementary training in Bilbo's yard; because otherwise he'd feel unbearably guilty about letting Bilbo do his work for him. It was a good thing that his working out in Bag End carried over to his own body after all. Smart work-out with proper rests and a lot of mutton had made his work a lot more efficient than it would have otherwise.

And so it was ten days before the U.A. entrance exam when he stood on top of a rock, bare-chested and bright-eyed, and shouted at the rising sun.

It was the end of his baby steps.

“Congratulations, young Midoriya.”

He turned around, and find his idol walking down the step to the now spotless beach. He was clapping and nodding and his smile seemed to have grown more brilliant than it had ever been.

“Well... to be honest I had my doubt at the beginning, so let me just get out here and come clean about that.” All Might scratched his head and looked awkwardly at the ground. “Especially seeing you fumbling after the third day.”

Izuku scratched his scalp and smiled sheepishly. Part of him had wanted to retort and say it wasn't fair because  _ Bilbo _ hadn't been prepared for the whole 'clean up the beach' business and was more or less a middle-aged man who probably never lifted before. 

For obvious reasons he said nothing, but Izuku did grin as All Might showed him the photo of himself on the first day and how he was now: how much he'd changed was palpable.

“You must have a very good supporting family, young man” said All Might.

“I do!” Izuku said, and his grin couldn't have been broader if he tried. “I... I wouldn't be here without them.”

And then unceremoniously All Might handed Izuku one of his hair and told him to eat it. If anyone would ask Izuku how exactly he did it, he'd claim 'I forgot!' and smile that sheepish, puppy-eyed smile of his, and sweep everything under the rug.

What he could not and would not sweep under the rug was the next thing he asked All Might.

“Um... I don't suppose, sir, since we do have some time, uh... could you please teach me how this actually works?” 

***

The first time Midoriya Izuku tried out a One-For-All powered punch, he could not even finish the full motion. 

Perhaps he'd had the adrenaline and the inclination to save someone else in that first time, he would have ignored the pain and go on to break himself.

As it happened, there was no villain to crush and no innocent to save, and Izuku's body had done a very good job telling him “ _ No. Stop. _ ” In a blink the bright line that had emerged along and across his calf vanished with a fizzle. Nasty-looking bruises popped up on his exposed shoulder and elbow joints, and Young Midoriya collapsed on his knee with a scream.

“You alright, young man?” All Might asked, and at once felt like an idiot. Of course the young man was not: tears were streaming down his contorted face, and at that moment All Might realized how lucky he'd been that such a thing had never happened to him.

It was five full minutes before the boy could stand up again (and that was with some ice-packs Toshinori had always kept stacked in his truck). And no sooner had he been back on his two feet than young Midoriya's arms flare up again.

“You know what, stop it right there,” he said, and Midoriya  _ deflated _ . “Won't be good to break your arm a week before exam.”

“But I... I don't get it,” murmured young Midoriya. “Haven't I trained all this year? Is all of this still not enough?”

Then he stared at the ground. “I'm... I'm sorry. I have been slacking.”

“No you haven't,” said All Might. “I  _ saw  _ what you've done, young man. Yet-”

At first, All Might was as befuddled as his protege if not more. Had he miscalculated how much training and beefing up the boy would need to handle his power? No, that made no sense. Years ago when he'd received One For All, All Might had been scrawnier, poorly looked after. So why-

And then All Might realized he'd been the successor who'd held One For All the longest and therefore had put the most into it. Probably more than the previous six users put together: given how tremendously active in the hero business he had been. 

_ Oh. Crap.  _

Everything suddenly made so much sense, All Might felt like punching himself.

Making sense was one thing. Handling the fallout was another. And when the going was bad, well, there was no shame withdrawing for the day either.

“Go home and rest for the day, young man,” he said, and meant it. 

Izuku stared long at the ground. “But...”

“There's definitely a way, you hear?” said All Might, and he clenched every muscle on his face to stretch out his smile. “You did good, young man. You did  _ good  _ and when I say I'm  _ proud  _ of you, I  _ mean  _ it. Don't ever tell yourself this is your fault. You heard me!”

***

When Bilbo woke up the next day, he found himself buried neck-deep in drafting paper while besotted with a right arm in mortal pain. So many diagrams and scribbling, words scrawled out in a hurry and then scratched again equally hastily. The smell of coffee was thick in the room, half a dozen empty cups arranged in a line at the far end of the table.

Izuku's handwriting was barely readable and grammatically atrocious.

_ “Full swing arc impossible? Half an arc? A quarter? A fifth? Safe range: two centimeters. One?” _

_ “Time is a factor. Three seconds? Two and a half? Probably less than a second?”  _

_ “Whole arm too risky. Fingers? Three fingers hurt badly. Two? One? One fingertip?” _

Izuku had been  _ designing  _ something – obsessively, Bilbo noted. He was drawing some kind of box-like gauntlets meant to be fitted around the arm. It was a rough draft scratched and overwritten over and over again, and the final version looked like a a cross between a bracer and a jewel box, with a tube that went between the middle and ring-fingers. 

_ “Marbles go here,”  _ went the note pointing to the box. 

_ “Marble tube - Lock to release marbles? (better loading mechanism?)”  _ the tube was annoted.

_ “Thumb and middle finger rings? Wrapping cloth? Finger-caps? Other options? Must ask All Might!” _

_ “Where to get material? Ask Mom? Hardware store? Trash?” _

Running vertically along the sheet were the words, _ “Note to self: Must  not break fingers or collar!”  _

The design haunted Bilbo's day as he went along with the rest of what Izuku was supposed to do: Go to school, have lunch in a corner, dodge Katsuki and company, and convince Mistress Inko Midoriya that no, absolutely nothing was wrong, why would she even think that?

It was only after he'd finished everything else and returned to Izuku's room at the end of the day that Bilbo reread everything the boy had come up with.

By the time he  _ finally  _ fully understood what had happened to him the previous day, the dull ache on his right arm suddenly grew just that much worse. Having an arm exploded was  _ definitely  _ a no-no, thought a frightened-for-his-life Bilbo.

But what to say? What to write?

After his fourth cup of tea at midnight, Bilbo decided dissuading Izuku from using this arm-busting One For All thing was about as realistic as winning a brawl against a live dragon. For long did he bite down on the pencil, and as the clock struck two a flash of inspiration finally came to him.

_ “Look, my dear lad, not to disparage but what you need is certainly not a marble-dispensing device, no, sir!”  _ he wrote. “ _ What you need is a sturdy sling and a pair of good, thick, woolen pair of padded gloves! Think gambeson, except for your hand rather than your chest! Shouldn't take too much training to use.” _

And then Bilbo began adding his own observations to Izuku's notes. He, too, fell asleep on the drawing board, across the table from a row of teacups of his own.

***

“A sling?”

Izuku swallowed hard. “I've tried again and again,” he said. “I... can't adjust how strong One For All is right now, and uh... I've got to listen to my body and it tells me my hand has a fraction of a second-” He snapped his finger for emphasis “-before it goes bust. That means I have to apply the force to the smallest area possible, the shortest swing arc possible at the shortest time possible!” 

He drew in a deep breath, and continued with a  _ gulp.  _ “I've thought of flicking marbles, but that means rubbing my thumb and my middle finger together and that alone would kind of put too much force on both. But a sling, well I probably don't even need to swing it around to build momentum, all I need is flick my arm like so.” 

He stuck out his right arm and flicked his collar to the left. Tiny lines emerged on his thumb and index finger. The motion whipped up a gust of wind and tossed aside sand and gravel on the ground in a ten-meter straight line. For the briefest moment a jolt of pain shot up his fingertips like he'd slammed them on a hard surface, and they turned just a bit red. “Ouch...” he exclaimed and clutched his hand.

But they were fine. His fingers were fine. More importantly: it worked and All Might had got the message.  _ And he agreed! _

“That. Is. Brilliant, young Midoriya!” he cried, and patted Izuku a little too hard on the shoulder. “Although that one's a bit on the weaker side... Ah well, it isn't like you'll need an anti-materiel rifle to pass the entrance exam...”

“I... I see,” said Izuku. “I'll just have to try harder, sir!”

“Now don't give me that. What did I tell you yesterday, huh? Breaking your arm's no good! If you can control the power at this rate and keep your arm under wrap... I see no reason you can't put it to good use!”

Then All Might raised a finger to the sky.

“Well how about we give it a whirl?” he said, and off he took (literally)

When All Might came back from the truck, he was carrying a handful of hachimaki – the sort meant to be tied around the head – with the American stars-and-stripes printed on them. 

“Here it is!” he announced. “The All-American Hyper-Tensile Cloth Sling! They made them extra-tough for the charismatic career heroes!”

Izuku could hear his jaw hit the ground. “Uh... Aren't they just headbands? Your headbands?”

“Well they are! But in the hands of a hero even a headband can become a heroic tool of justice!”

Izuku rolled his eyes at his idol. And then said eyes  _ sparkled _ . “Will do, sir!”

The rest of the day passed rather slowly compared to the rest of the year, and quite a bit more exciting. By the time it ended, Izuku had ripped through five headbands, frayed another three, and had taken to wrap another two around his finger (neither of which were whole), and was on the verge of breaking his fingers a dozen times. The keyword is “verge”: Izuku's arm had  _ not  _ exploded into bloody giblets, and that was all that mattered.

***

For an entire week Izuku's life revolved around the sling and how to use it. 

It was actually funner than he thought swinging around a pebble wrapped in a piece of cloth had any right to be. 

He couldn't adjust very well how strong All For One would be yet, but his nerves were doing a very good job of telling him when his hand would give way, and that in turn made for a benchmark for adjusting everything else: the angle of his arm, the direction of the flick, whether he should spin the sling around and how much, whether he should secure his fingers with cloth wraps to balance between protection and speed, and most importantly, how to actually hit things with a sling bullet.

By the end of his sixth day, Izuku was able to hit a trashed refrigerator fifty meters away with enough force to punch right through it, four times out of ten, with only some lingering pain. Which was far less impressive than One For All was.

Except after that last day All Might gripped his shoulder (as hard as he could in his deflated skeletal form), and said:

“You'll do fine, young Midoriya. Why? Because you've got two incredibly strong weapons: Your head, and your heart!” 

In fact, throughout that last leg of training, Izuku's nagging worry was not about the exam itself, or controlling One For All. No, it was whether he'd body-switched on the day of the exam. 

As it happened, the switch was on the day  _before_ the exam, and for that Izuku could not have thanked whatever deities out there enough. 

In another timeline he would have worked himself into near exhaustion until the very end. In this timeline, on that last day he had the garden of Bag End to frolic around, half a dozen friendly hobbits walking by to wave and shout “Good Morning” at, and many a scrumptious buttered scones to munch on (no more mutton, and just about time too. Izuku was getting fed up with the taste of lamb fat). And most of all, just have a day to just  _unwind._

“ _Thank you for everything, Bilbo_ ,” he wrote. “ _I'll pass the exam, get into U.A., and have you walk around the most wonderful hero school in all of Japan – no, the whole world! I- no,_ we  _will become the mightiest hero ever!”_

When he went to bed, he was lying face-up, cradled by Bilbo's warm blanket, and his dream was of Earendil the Mariner who had once taken a flying ship to battle a dragon the size of a mountain range. 

_ Bring on the exam _ .

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes and head-canons:
> 
> \- About Izuku controlling OFA early without shattering his arm: The thing with Deku's limb-breaking in the early parts of the series is that it had ALWAYS happened in emergencies (Saving Uraraka; Must-Avoid-Being-Expelled-On-Day-1; Fighting Bakugou who was very much out for his blood; USJ villain attack; and last but not least trying to snap Shouto out of it), and had had very little time to make heads or tails out of how to use OFA properly until the Stein arc. 
> 
> Now the problem with using an extremely self-destructive weapon in times of great danger to yourself and yours, is that adrenaline would kick in and your body's nervous system - which is supposed to reflexively shut you down from self-destructive behavior like stabbing your hand into a fire or running into a wall or bending your own finger the wrong way - will be put on hold. I think this is exactly what happened to Deku in canon: His body failed to register that it is being broken because of adrenaline.
> 
> Now, however, when he gets to try out OFA in a controlled environment where there is no threat to life or limbs, his body would react, presumably before any lasting damage could be done, thus give him a chance - via immense pain - to at least try to regulate the damage and come up with alternative solutions. 
> 
> \- On actual mutton as food for body building: A quick Google search revealed that lamb and mutton isn't a bad choice for body builders - some advice lots and lots of eggs, too. Now I'm your typical white-collar person who never quite hits the gym; so take everything and I mean EVERYTHING I wrote here with a few cartloads of salt! After all this detail is only in this chapter because of the parallel to the Hobbit novel, so...


	5. Far Over the U.A. Barrier Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Far over the Yuuei Barrier old
> 
> Through classes long and midnights cold
> 
> We must away, ere break of day
> 
> To be a hero brave and bold.
> 
>  
> 
> …
> 
>  
> 
> The crowds were roaring on the stand,
> 
> The bones were cracking in your hand,
> 
> The fire was red, the ice was blue,
> 
> The clash like storm rent the land”

**CHAPTER 4**

**FAR OVER THE U.A. BARRIER OLD**

 

Some people said the best students were those who silently, unquestioningly, unflinchingly took in knowledge.

Bull. Complete bull.

As All Might – Yagi Toshinari as he now went – had just found out, the most remarkable student were those who made their teachers understand new things just by teaching them, and formed a stable, positive feedback loop where student and teacher learnt from each other until they were both _equals_.

Midoriya Izuku was such a student.

“You are... uncharacteristically quiet, Principal, sir.”

Nedzu lifted his teacup and took a dainty sip. “Unlike common perception, Yagi, I _do_ know when to keep quiet and listen. You were saying?”

He winked with his scarred eye, and suddenly Toshinori felt a cold draft up his spine. Talking to Nedzu had ever been an experience akin to getting your mind read: it was impossible to completely catch the man (Bear? Mouse? Hamster? A cross between all three?) by surprise. When he was not babbling Toshinori's ears off, as had often been the case, the _creepy_ factor would be ramped up tenfold. Toshinori was being read like a book, and they both knew it.

“I wish to petition for a change in the format of the entrance exam,” he finally said. There was no dodging around the matter.

“I thought as much,” said Nedzu. “You are also quite aware Aizawa has been doing much the same for the last six years.” Toshinori nodded. “And yet no change has been made. Why do you think _your_ petition would be different?”

“Because-”

“Oh, and just a friendly reminder, 'because I am All Might' doesn't count as valid answer!”

“I know,” Toshinori said. “I thought I'd like to echo Aizawa's sentiment for once. We've been missing out on genuinely good students-”

“Exactly what he says,” said Nedzu. “Perhaps I've phrased myself a bit poorly. Why, Yagi, do you think we have insisted on a format of exam that frankly favors strong combat quirks over everything else?”

“Because to be a hero means to fight,” said Toshinori. “Whether it is criminals, villains, natural disasters or whatever emergency there are, combat-oriented quirks have always been...” He could feel his throat scrunching up. “... top-tier.”

“Correct,” said Nedzu, and there he smiled again; his voice trailing into a soft squeak. “And for such a diverse pool of talent as we have applying every year, there is no test format that would more objectively assess them all than a free-for-all combat-rescue simulation. Don't you agree, Yagi?”

“Indeed, I do,” said Toshinori. It would be hypocritical if he said otherwise; he was _the_ number-one hero out there after all. “But...”

“I shall be frank, Principal, sir,” he said. “Since the dawn of our quirk-powered society eighty years ago, hero work has always been a very... individualistic kind of work. Everything we do as heroes and hero-trainers have centered around how to use our _individual_ quirk to best suit our _individual_ mission. We create _individual_ images for ourselves and use it as both title and marketing. We put on our _individual_ masks and don our _individual_ costumes and use our quirk the only was we can, and hope it is enough. For the most part... we've been successful, haven't we?”

More tea-sipping. “Do go on,” said Nedzu.

Toshinori swallowed hard. “But what if this no longer holds up? What if, in living up to this individualism, we miss out the essence of true heroism?”

Nedzu's eyes flashed. “Which is?”

“Teamwork; and I don't mean just heroes and sidekicks, but between heroes.” His breath was as forceful as half a lung could manage. “Unless it is an emergency, you don't see _me_ working very well with Endeavor, or Best Jeanist with Eraserhead, or – what's her name again? Mount Lady? With basically everyone else.”

He slammed his hand on the table. The chips were down.

“Let us face the hard truth, sir. I don't have long to serve society as the Symbol of Justice. When I fall and my successor has yet to take over the mantle of Number One Hero, and there is no one hero strong enough to frighten would-be criminals and villains into laying low, what then?”

“Mmm.” Nedzu's expression was unreadable. He gestured towards Toshinori's cup. “I see you aren't drinking, Yagi. Tea's getting cold.”

“Pardon me,” said Toshinori, and downed the teacup in one gulp. “What I mean is... what if we try a different approach? Choosing the next batch of would-be heroes based on both their quirks and heroism, _and_ their ability to work in a spontaneous team?”

That was, far as Toshinori was aware, part of the curriculum all right. But for the Hero Course, for a lesson to _merely_ be on the curriculum wasn't enough. For instance, everything related to Modern Hero Arts he'd forgotten barely two years out of high school and never looked back.

“Hahahaha,” laughed Nedzu. “Yagi Toshinori, All Might, have some more tea.” He filled Toshinori's cup. Then he clapped his hands ceremoniously. “I knew you would suggest as much. And I knew I would have to agree in principle.”

Toshinori's head slumped. He _knew_ this was going to happen! “So you did,” he said

“It's only logical that you would think as much.” Nedzu steepled his fingers. “I wonder, is this an idea you got from your new protege?”

Either way, there seemed to be little point to Toshinori's answer. It was scientifically proven to be impossible to surprise Nedzu; at least for him.

He finally settled with “Perhaps,” and trusted Nedzu would get the idea.

“You aren't the only one to voice this concern, my dear Yagi.” said Nedzu, “Let's just say for the meeting tomorrow, Aizawa shall get the surprise he needs – though not necessarily the one he _wants_.”

***

Dwalin had had some doubt since about having a hobbit for a burglar. The ten months of a delay had done nothing but add to his suspicion.

The aging dwarf could still recall Thorin coming so very close to flying into a rage when Gandalf came to his room in the Green Dragon Inn and asked him to postpone the expedition. “ _You old fool, charlatan, duper, saboteur! Betrayer of the folks of Durin!_ ” he had cried, and it took Gandalf standing up and slamming his staff on the ground and conjured a bolt of lightning flash to calm him down.

In a certain definition of 'calm down', of course.

“ _I am not trying to thwart your cause, Your Most Noble And Eminent Highness Sire,_ ” the wizard had said. “ _I want to help you, and you will listen to me: The hobbit is necessary, and not_ only _because Smaug the Terrible knows not the smell of hobbits. You can take your chances without him and that's perfectly fine. Or you shall do as I say, and give him (and myself) some time to prepare unbidden businesses._ ”

In other words, spoken like a true wizard.

Fast forward one year, and now here he was: Dwalin son of Fundin, first among the company of Thorin Oakenshield to approach Bilbo Baggins the 'master thief' of Bag End.

When he rapped his axe-handle on that large green door perfectly round with a dainty brass knob in the middle, he had geared himself for the disappointment of a lifetime. A typical hobbit, he'd expected, round in the middle, short and stubby of limbs, too well-groomed, too comfortable, too stuffy... too unfit for adventure.

What he instead saw was a spitting image of his younger self.

Alright, maybe that was a bit of an exaggeration, but not by much.

There, at the doorway was an uncharacteristically well-built and lively hobbit. Nonexistent potbelly. Jaws hard and sharp. Shoulders broad. Limbs like tree trunks and built twice as tough. All he needed to pass for a dwarf of Iron Hill was a mass of braided silvery beard, a coat of gleaming long mail and a war-mattock to match.

“Do come in, master dwarf,” said the hobbit, checking off a list in his hand. “What's your name again, my good sir?”

The he stretched out his right palm, full of rugged calluses. Dwalin took his hand, and there was a _squeeze_ he'd long missed.

“Uh...” Dwalin paused, his gaze met the hobbit again, and his mouth ran in the only way he knew. “Balin son of Fundin son of Farin, at your service, noble warrior.”

The hobbit rolled his eyes, then gave a throaty chuckle. “Noble? Warrior? Goodness gracious, I'm afraid not! I'm merely a hobbit a little more affluent than my kin and neighbors. I should count my blessings for that!”

On second look, the atypical hobbit was probably speaking the truth. He had neither the hard eyes of one who had slain enemies to protect kith and kin, nor the scars earnt in war and strife. But there was something else: his large musculature and impressive form all pointed to someone who had seen more physical exertion than the average hobbit during a whole lifetime. To say nothing about how Dwalin's very scarred and stocky build – even for a dwarf – and sack full of bladed and edged implements startled him not at all.

He'd hung his hood on one of the many coat-hangers inside and was trailing after Bilbo, and deep inside he was _rumbling._ No, no, no, he _had_ to test this little fellow out, or the warrior in him would not rest peaceably.

“Lad, I can see warrior material from a mile away,” he said as his feet stomped on the wooden flooring of the smial. “Now since the rest of the throng should be a while away, how about a contest of arm wrestling?”

***

Izuku could not remember a time he had been _more_ ready for an exam. He'd kissed his mom, and she'd wished him all the luck in the world. His breakfast was delicious, and next to his table there was a small piece of paper with the words “ _Good luck and may Yavanna guide your steps_ ” written in elf-letters. All of his knowledge was in his head, and his 'acquired' quirk was mostly under rudimentary control.

In fact, so ready he was that he'd taken a one-hour walk along the newly cleaned beach site- morning exercise, smell the fresh air _and_ fill his pockets with pebbles at the same time. The first light of the day had only emerged behind the horizon, shining upon Izuku's beaming face...

… and exactly one other person.

The first thing Izuku saw of her was a metallic frame cradling around her limbs that looked too riding for comfort. Except it actually wasn't _that_ solid: she was moving her arms and legs just fine – even breaking out into a short jog. The second thing... There was no second thing, because right about then she was turning towards him and gave him a wave

“Hey, you there!”

He stood there, slack-jawed for all of five seconds, his finger pointing at himself. “W-who, me?”

“Yes, you,” said the girl. She waved again, and flashed a broad grin at him. She had this round face yet edged features, and her pinkish hair was so styled they looked a little like balloons bunched together.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I thought this beach is deserted.”

“Was deserted,” the girl corrected. “Heard some poor schmucks cleaned up the whole beach, and I thought, hey, why not enjoy the scene when the iron's hot? Good place to take some of my cute babies out for a whirl too.”

“B-babies?”

The girl flailed both hands. “Hey, don't look at me like that. What are ya, silly?”

It was not everyday that a girl would talk to him so openly. But even that was less of a wonder than the thing she was dragging along: A bipedal robot that looked both shiny and beat-up, walking in huge strides for its body while making 'piyo, piyo' noises with every step.

“Uh... is that yours?”

“Ah, ah, ah, that's Piyocchan #13! Newest baby of mine. A little disappointing she doesn't explode though-”

She scooped the pet robot up in her arms. “Thought I'd put a jet pack on her one of those days. Helps with flight and that delicious explodey factor!”

“I... see?” and at once Izuku didn't know what to say. He _had_ completed the impossible: talking to a girl, and everything else was (for the moment) flying by his ears in a blur. Never mind that she'd just called a robot her baby _and_ expressed her desire to see it blow up, in the same breath.

“Ah, and just before I forget! Name's Hatsume Mei.” She pressed a button on the remote-control thing in her hand, and her goggles lifted from her eyes. Izuku shuddered: the girl had crosshairs for irises and was all too happy to stare him in the eyes with them.

“Uh, Midoriya Izu-Izuku,” he said, and scratched his head and tried to look away naturally and not-awkwardly. Keyword being 'tried'.

“Midoriya it is,” said Mei. “So whatcha doing? Also out for the fresh air, eh?”

Izuku shrugged. “Just... chilling before the big exam, I guess.”

The girl's crosshair-irises widened. “Exam? As in the _U.A._ Entrance exam?”

“Yeah,” said Izuku. “I got up a bit too early this morning, so-”

“Then we'll be competing!” shouted the girl.

“Are you?” Izuku shuddered. “Uh... good luck, I guess?”

“What are you, silly? I just said we're competing!” Mei said, clapping her hands. “Actually, I'm kidding. Pretty sure my quirk isn't good for anything _but_ the Support department, so if you're going for Heroic we don't quite need to knock each other out.”

“Don't sell yourself short,” said Izuku, and he meant it. His words were suddenly so bold and unrepentantly steadfast he almost couldn't believe it was his own voice.

“I'm not,” Mei said. She was _beaming_ if that made sense. “Give me an ant a kilometer away and I can describe it in graphic detail; that's about all my quirk does. Yours?”

And the timid Izuku arose once more. “Well, uh...” he stuttered. “I suppose... err... I... I toss stuff. Like this.”

He unwound the hachimaki-converted-into-a-sling from his wrist put it on his sling and picked up a pebble. With a fluid motion he spun the sling around: his fingers flashed green at the last moment, sending the shot flying towards the sea. The bullet tore through the air, leaving a _bang_ in its wake, and sailed all the way out into the ocean before disappearing behind the horizon where sea and sky met.

“Not bad, not bad!” the girl said, and clapped her heavily gloved hands “If you'd adjusted your shooting angle by half a degree down and thirteen degrees to the left and... flattened the trajectory just a tiny bit-” She held up her thumb and index finger two inches apart, and winked at Izuku through the gap. “-you would have hit that buoy over there.”

Izuku whited out. “There _is_ a buoy over there?”

“Wait, what? You mean you don't see that _thing_ floating like a nail in the eye three hundred fifty six meters away?”

Izuku scratched his head. He couldn't see even the faintest silhouette of the thing, much less consciously taking aim at it.

“Uh... maybe?” It had been a long time since Izuku last had his eyes checked, though given how much reading and writing and watching Youtube his eyesight was most certainly no longer 20/20.

“Oh,” she said. “Sorry, sometimes I kinda sorta forget not everyone has my quirk and a pair designed to work with it!”

“Are you bringing all of this into the exam?” _Is it even allowed?_ went unsaid.

“Well, as long as I made it myself for my own use and got it clear with the school first,” she said. “They vetoed all of my cutest babies! At least I still have three of the darlings here-” She patted on her shining exoskeleton. “-and here!” She pointed to her goggles. “And finally here!” She pressed a button on her shoulder. The bipedal robot came paddling back towards her like a duckling while chirping “piyo, piyo” all the way.

Izuku wasn't sure what kind of face he was making. He could have been more tactful, sure, but the bipedal robot was _really_ begging for it. Next he knew the girl was putting her hands at her hip and leaning towards him with her cheeks puffed.

“Hey, don't give me that look!” she said. “Tell you what, this is like a tenth as ridiculous as the best quirks out there. You know, the kind of quirks certain to land you a spot in the Heroics, no questions asked.”

At once Izuku didn't know how much she actually meant what she said. She did, to his ear, sound mildly disappointed.

And count on a meddling hobbit to

“I suppose,” said Izuku. “Still, like I said: don't sell yourself short. Isn't being a hero all about doing the right thing with all you have no matter how strong or weak your quirk happens to be?”

For a couple seconds those crosshair irises were gazing blinklessly at Izuku.

And then Hatsume Mei broke out into a guffaw. “You're plain weird, you know that, Midoriya?” she said.

“Never said I'm not,” said Izuku.

***

Balin could not believe his eyes.

The hobbit was arm-wrestling his brother to a draw. The hobbit he'd expected to be nothing but a fluke. Versus his brother, the third greatest dwarven warrior of Durin's folk of their age!

There they sat at the table, arms flexed and strainedin a pure contest of strength. Neither were budging an inch. A thin sheen of sweat was covering Dwalin's bald head. The hobbit's teeth were clenched, his face taut, sweat running down the bridge of his nose.

“I'm getting too old for this,” he said. “Say, Master Baggins, where's the food? I suppose I could, ah, help with laying the table?”

The hobbit raised a brow. “Let's call it a draw, Master Dwarf,” he proposed. “A proper host never let his guest do chores!”

To Balin's surprise, his brother released his grip. “A draw it is,” he said. _Just a little more and I would have lost_ was what his raised eyebrow and shaking head told Balin.

Next thing he knew, Balin was in the kitchen, where a veritable banquet for a small army was sitting. There were cakes and pastries, seed-cakes and shortbread, sausages and bacon, tomatoes and cucumbers and many mushrooms, potatoes both mashed and baked, and a very large pot of stew that carried the sweet aroma of beef and veal and aged red wine all over the house. There were many bottles of ale and beer, and a few of red wine. The kettle was boiling, and Bilbo wasted no time dispensing with the teapots.

Balin's mouth was watering.

“Be a bit careful with that, Master-,” said Bilbo, handing over a pile of finely lacquered plates. He glanced into his list. “-Balin, am I right”

Balin nodded and took over the plates.

“My mother's best chinaware; at least a century old! Not to be opened unless to entertain very important guests.”

“Very important guests, you said?” said Balin.

Funny to be hearing those three syllables. He might have been a very important dwarf once upon a time, son of a noble and meant to become his king's best and finest when the throne should pass from Thror to Thrain and Thrain to Thorin. But that was before Smaug; and now the first two old dwarves were gone and the third had only a coat of mail and a few trinkets of gold and silver – not a drop of water to the ocean that was the wealth of Erebor meant to be his.

Nowadays nobody except Thorin would describe their line as anything 'important' unironically any more.

To hear a hobbit so call him was... odd. And refreshing.

“I am a Baggins of Bag End,” said Bilbo. “Everyone who chances upon my door who carries no ill will is an important guest. They can be a six-year-old boy with nary a friend, and they'd still be an important guest.”

The hobbit's eyes were bright. As far as Balin knew, he was telling the truth.

And then once more the doorbell rang.

***

“It's unlucky to trip before an exam!”

In fact he was so surprised by her sudden save that he couldn't even manage to analyze what had happened as he normally would. He did, however, manage to blurt out a very heartfelt “Thank you!”

The girl smiled back at him. “No probs!” she said with a wave. “Do your best!”

“You too!”

Even as he shouted out at the girl, part of Izuku felt like he'd used up all the luck of the day; what with talking to not one but _two_ girls before the morning was even halfway over. Which, unfortunately, meant the luck he needed for the exam was in jeopardy.

Fortunately, all of that was balanced out: one, by bumping into Kacchan and very nearly eating a palm full of nitroglycerin sweat, and two, by having the boy behind him in the auditorium yell at him for... basically being himself. A bit of a rigid fellow he seemed, and would perhaps belong more in a Jidai Geki drama about stoically loyal samurai fighting other stoically loyal samurai to the death than in an exam into a superhero school.

“You're making too much noise!” he had screamed. “Do not disturb your fellow examinees on my watch!”

To be fair for that last one, it was Izuku's fault mumbling like a madman stepping into the U.A. Exam briefing auditorium; which only got louder as the sel-proclaimed Master of Ceremony marched into the fore.

It was Present Mic, and in many ways he was incredibly _cool_ as a pro hero. Correction: he was cooler as a show business personality than a pro hero. Izuku had still spent three full pages on him, which was two pages more than mostly every other hero whose name wasn't All Might.

The next few minutes passed by in a lot of fantabulousness. Present Mic was doing what Present Mic did best: making a flamboyant show out of everything while a helpful slideshow over the humongous screen behind him did its best filling in the details: about the exam being a robot smash-fest, about the examinees being graded by the number of robots whacked, about how (with the help of the straight-laced samurai boy) there was a ridiculous overpowered zero-pointer to dodge.

Except there was more.

“But that is, like, so last season!” Present Mic snapped his finger. “You heard me right, boys and girls! This year, by an unanimous vote of the staff, the exam format is undergoing a ma-hoo-sive overhaul!”

A second passed. Then two. Then a the auditorium broke out in a “Whoa?” with some “Eeeh?” mixed into it.

“Oh, you'll still be graded based on the number and type of villain you take down, certainly! That part's here to stay, kiddos! But the best part, yeah, the best part is... the _Assist_ component!”

He snapped his finger, and the slide shifted into a diagram.

Slide the first, Present Mic was yelling at a robot; sounds waves were rippling through the creature while stars were circling over its head.

Slide the second, a caricature of Kamui Wood was stabbing through the same dizzied robot through the chest with his branches.

Slide the third, a giant foot was crushing the robot into a thousand pieces.

Slide the final, Present Mic, Kamui and normal-sized Mount Lady (because who else could that foot have belonged to?) were standing in a line; the first two with '½' pinged over their head. the last had '1', a star and a cup to her name.

“A villain take-down will award two sets of score. The lucky chap who strikes the final blow gets the full score!” Present Mic shouted. “But any of the other boys and girls who'd helped him weaken down the villain before the KO, well, you'll be eligible to receive Assist score! Equal to the villain's worth divided by the number of you minor characters holding the him down so the lucky protagonist could punch him in the face! As long as you've joined your fellow hero neutralizing a villain, you're guaranteed at least quarter of a point!”

The auditorium erupted into a cacophony of “Wow!” and “Cool!” and “Awesome!”

“Hey, they've taken this straight from a MOBA!” exclaimed the boy sitting in front of Izuku – a blond with black lightning patterns running through his hair.“Guess Super Mario Bros is so last E3!”

“Bingo!” Present Mic pointed both hands at the boy. “Well that's not the only change either! This year the exam time limit has been whopping _tripled_ , so you have half an hour to properly strategize, band together and either break some 'bots or break up! No hard feeling for that last one, please! This is still a test, boys and girls!”

Immediately Izuku's head whipped up a storm. So many possibilities! He could wait for a while then ask to team up with some of the more experienced fellow examinees. He could stay behind them and take potshots at enemies or cover blind spots, earning Assist points either way. He could even stalk after Kacchan and accost him while stealing Assist points off his kills! Or he could-

And then he realized he was being looked at so intently his heart was beating a mite faster.

“H-Hatsume, W-why are you looking at me like that?”

“Why else do you think?” said the girl. “You're a long-distance slinger who ain't seeing so well with your eyes, and I, well, I see things from a looong way!” There was a grin more like a serial killer fixating on her next victim than a fellow test-taker. “We're so _meant_ to be together, Midoriya! They'll never know what hit'em!”

When the shock and creep-out factor had subsided, Izuku could not help but admit her plan actually made sense. So much it felt almost unfair. “But-”

Mei ignored him. “Oh, oh, I know! We need a group motto!” “How about, ' _Sniper team, where do you need us?_ '”

A very large sweatdrop ran down Izuku's cheek. “Uh... too militaristic? And uh... aren't sniper some of the least heroic people around by definition?”

“Non-bucking-sense, Midoriya!” Mei placed her hands at her hips and puffed her cheeks. “Snipers are the second bravest and most awesome people on this planet only falling behind inventors by a teeny tiny bit!”

She pressed her face close to Izuku's. “Imagine two people in the smack middle of danger surrounded by enemies, the sniper and his loyal spotter, protected only by some camouflage and uncontrollable, unmitigable _luck._..”

Closer. “The smallest misstep, the tiniest of noise, the minusculest of errors and boom! Their cover blows like one of my cute babies on a good day! And then they'd be dead as a rivet!”

Even closer. “If that isn't heroic, Midoriya, I don't know what is!”

Now her face was so close to Izuku's their noses almost touched, and his eyes could make out every detail of the crosshair in her iris. His cheeks were _flaming red_. “A-a-a-ah, Hatsu-Hatsume, that's t-t-too close!”

“You get the image, Midoriya dear,” Mei said. “My job is to stop other people's cute babies from invading your cute personal space! Bam! Hit them before they see you, that's how!”

“Hey, you two!”

Izuku gulped. There's the scary boy from just now. He was chopping his two hands in the air, wooden and rigid like a robot.

“Take your discussion and _intimacy_ somewhere the rest of the examinees can't see! You're being a distraction!” he cried.

Izuku flinched. “I-in-intimacy?” His face went red as a spinach-topped tomato.

Mei merely nodded. “He's my team,” she said. “Live with it.”

Then the bell tolled, and Izuku found himself dragged off through the door by a power-armored arm. Izuku had no time to get redder (though if he'd had the chance he definitely would have).

***

First Dwalin (granted by dwarven arm-wrerstling rule that was more a draw), then Fili, then Gloin and Dori; and Kili was quaking so unbecomingly of a prince. _Is this hobbit some kind of arm-wrestling monster_?

Now Balin and Dwalin had been off setting the table, as did Fili with his head hung low in shame. Bilbo was standing in the middle of the great dining room and puffing, but one look and Kili could conclude he was nowhere near exhausted yet. He wouldn't be surprised if he'd take on every single member of the company and at least draw.

“Well,” he said, “I think that's good enough for getting to know each other, no?”

And Kili exhaled in relief.

“Are you sure you've never been in a scuffle, Master Baggins?” asked Dori. “I find that-”

“A waste,” said Dwalin. Now he'd set most of the table and put hams and cakes and sausages down the middle, and poured himself a large mug of ale. “My good hobbit lad, how in the world did you become as vigorous as you are without any sort of fighting?”

“Well, I happened to have had an extraordinarily busy year. Been hauling many tonnes of refuse all over the place and then some.”

“Hauling refuse? But how? “ cried wide-eyed Ori. “You're a gentle-hobbit in the Shire!”

“I traveled,” said Bilbo with a smile best described as mysterious. “My family isn't the most sedentary of hobbits, you see, and that is not always a bothersome thing.”

“Well, tell you what, my good lad,” said Dwalin, his voice unnecessarily loud. “You want to learn how to fight, I'll be the dwarrow. Such a waste letting all that strength go to hauling _refuse_.”

“I'll certainly take it under advise,” said Bilbo, and put down the rest of the food.

The events of the next twenty minutes were rather predictable. The rest of the dwarves came in a heap at Bilbo's doorstep: Bifur, Bofur and Bombur, and the feast began in earnest: all twelve dwarves and their kind host sitting around two huge dinner-tables put together.

The last knock at the door was, comparably speaking, suitably dramatic.

“So,” said Thorin, his voice ice-cold. “This is the troublesome hobbit we are supposed to hire. Lad, you've kept us waiting for one whole year.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Bilbo. “I thought you have been fine with it.” His expression was unreadable, though his tone was doubtlessly sincere.

And then Thorin looked him from head to toe, as if assaying him in a crucible. For a second Fili bit his lip – but then Thorin nodded, and at once he knew it wasn't so bad as he'd feared. “Indeed,” said Thorin. “But I must ask you, master hobbit. Axe and sword, which do you prefer?”

“I prefer a sling.” He said, and his hand clamped down on Thorin's hand so hard Fili could almost hear the cracking of rock. His eyes were burning, as if telling Fili's uncle, _I'm fine with my fists._

If Thorin had caught the insinuation, he did not answer. “Sling,” he repeated. He still carried that clinically measured voice of his, but it had now lost the gravely edge and sounded almost amicable. Almost. “Not a bad choice. Not a bad choice at all. We could always use a steady aim where we're headed.”

“Thank you for your understanding,” said Bilbo, and there he waved out to Gandalf standing just outside the doorway. “Master Gandalf? Please do come in!”

It was the first time Kili noted Gandalf was nodding with approval if nothing else. And one of the few times his uncle actually had a _non-negative_ first interaction with a _non-dwarf_.

***

Uncomfortable as he had been, Izuku had to admit: Hatsume Mei's quirk was _ridiculous_ as long as there was someone to make use of it.

The first thing they'd done was to hightail themselves up the fifth storey of an apartment building lookalike three blocks from the entrance, a process helped a great deal by Mei's body-suit-mounted grappling gun. And now while their fellow examinees were scattered all over the district, they were standing perched on a balcony jutting out from the corner of the building: a whole two-seventy degrees of shooting angle fifty feet above the ground.

“Now what?”

“Now?” Mei's funny-looking goggle lowered itself and locked into place. “ _Sniper team, where do ya need us?_ ”

Izuku loaded a pebble into his stars-and-stripes sling. “Ready when you are!”

Mei harrumphed.

And then it began. “Two pointer, seven o'clock, distance fifty six meter. Forty degree angle.” There, at the specified distance and angle, a robot was rolling across the street, its weapons poised.

Izuku's fingers glowed. The first sling bullet ripped the robot's arm clean off. The second flew past its head – and Izuku let out a small 'tch' and loaded the next shot. This one drilled a hole through its head. It fell down, not moving. “Third time,” he said, “pays for all.”

Mei wasn't moving, not even to give him a thumb up. “Three pointer, three o'clock. Twenty meters sixteen cents away. Forty two degrees.”

This one was easier. Crash went its chest armor. Pop went half its head. Bam went the other half.

“Two one-pointers, six and eight o-clock. Two-eight-fifteen, two-seven-forty. Sixty, sixty-eight.”

“I'll take them both!” Izuku cried, and let rip another bullet..

The first took a sling bullet to the knee, keeled over, flailing ineffectually. The second exploded into a shower of scraps and bolt courtesy of a blast too huge to be endogenous before Izuku could reload.

“Out of my way, shitnuggets!” The colorful battle-cry and the flash of white hair were unmistakable.

“Aww, kill-stealer...” Mei's brows twitched. “Oh, oh, oh, a three pointer-”

Said three pointer went down in pieces courtesy of a bolt of of yellow lightning and a _freaking laser beam_ from nowhere.

“T-two pointers, thirty-”

A huge black bird beak of pure shadow, gloom and doom tore through its chest. Its head was unceremoniously crushed by a human-sized tail swinging down like a war hammer.

“A-again, three poi-”

Two fists from opposite directions scrunched its head together like an industrial hydraulic power claw. “Aw, come _on_!” she cried.

Izuku's eyes hardened. “Hatsume, point me those furthest from the crowd!”

“You sure about that?”

“When the grass goes barren, the earliest sheep to find new pasture wins!”

“Alr-alright,” said Mei. “If we both fail this I'll send my babies to your house and blow it to smithereens!”

“You don't even know where my house is,” said Izuku, and loaded another shot.

“Alright, alright!” said May, and fingered a button on her goggles. “Three pointers, five-o, ninety-eight, five.”

It fell down not moving after fifteen seconds and ten shots. The next one took twelve shots, and the one after that, fifteen. The only way was to overwhelm the odds with sheer volume of fire.

The next twenty minutes passed by so quickly, and Izuku stopped counting after a bit. It was all he could do to aim and shoot _quickly_ without breaking fingers as it was.

Underneath their building, Bakugou was single-handedly murdering robots quickly – too quickly. He was probably trying his darnedest to do the job alone – thus robbing other contestants of Assist points.

In the distance, most of their fellows had taken the opposite approach and banded together as best as they could. Shadow-bird-dude, tail-hammer and six-arms were circling around a group of robots and hitting them in the back where they weren't looking. And the gravity girl, long-tongued frog girl and earphone-jack were whipping up some fascinating combo of their own – the last two dancing around the enemies until the first tap them on their shoulder and sent them flying.

Other than Bakugou the only one seemingly fighting alone was the pink-haired acid-spitting girl. But then Izuku saw her giving what looked like a high-five to a mass of floating clothes, so she might actually be up to something there.

“Can't see any more here!” Mei exclaimed.

“Let's move,” Izuku said. He threw his gaze towards the crowd. Off went the duo, racing through the emergency stairway and back down on the street. It went without saying that if they'd mingle with the others in the thick of it, maybe they could steal one or two more kills.

That, at least, was the reasoning when _it_ awakened.

 _It,_ in this context, meant a fifty-meter giant robot that would have made a Gun**m look like a hobbit. It rose through the building blocks in the very middle of the district, and made a sound that would have (probably) made an Ev***elion look like a cuddly doll. For a moment dust and debris flew everywhere: it was like a real disaster site.

Izuku gasped. Mei gasped. Mostly everyone else gasped, except Bakugou, who flinched.

This monster was worth exactly zero point.

“ _RUN!_ ” was exactly what came to Izuku's mind. That, of course, was before he glanced through the street between himself and the giant zero-pointer.

The girl who'd saved him from a fall was stuck under a piece of debris. The giant robot was roughly one step away from her.

Izuku clenched his fist. “Hatsume?” he said without looking back. “Just run without me! Hurry!”

He felt Mei's intense gaze upon his back. “I said run!”

He didn't wait for an answer.

When all Izuku had was a sling, everything looked like a bull's eye.

“HOBBITON-”

He spun the sling around.

“IMPACT-”  
His entire arm glowed green and red.

“TRIGGER!”

The shot ripped the sling to shreds and pierced through the air. It slammed the robot on the forehead.

Izuku's ears could only catch fabrics ripping and what sounded like twigs snapping.

A shockwave rippled through the air where the robot's forehead used to be. It staggered about just long enough for the pain in Izuku's arm to register. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he bit back the scream from his throat: it was as if every single nerve in his arm was crying “HURTS!”

The girl he was supposed to rescue, as it happened, was still having her leg stuck under the rubble.

“Piyo piyo piyo!”

The littlest, bravest robot in existence crashed into the slab of concrete. Up it blew, with a pop rather than a bang. Thus ended the short existence of Piyocchan #13, in a glorious blast as Mei intended for it.

When the dust settled, the offending piece of debris was in pieces. The brown-haired girl, staggering and limping, was barely standing up. Without a thought Izuku rushed towards her, extending his uninjured hand.

Five seconds passed like half a century, but there she was, grabbing Izuku's arm just as Hatsume rushed back. “No idea the age of chivalry's still around!” she exclaimed.

Izuku shook his head hard. “If you have time quipping, please do lend me a hand! Doesn't look like she can walk any more!”

Mei tossed Izuku a _look_. She proceeded to prop up the beleaguered girl anyway.

Just then the creaked and turned around. Now it was facing Izuku's very battered-up squad. “Aaaaah!” was all Mei could manage to say at all.

“You have a grappling hook, right?” cried the gravity girl. “Use it!”

Mei's eyes _flared._ “No can do! That thing can't support all three of us!”

The gravity girl did not relent. “Do it!” she shouted, and narrowed her eyes. “Now!”

Mei scowled. “Joke's on you. Midoriya, hold tight!” She pressed the button on her arm – at about the same time the gravity girl touched her in the arm.

Next thing Izuku felt was a very stiff wind on his face. They'd _blasted_ out of their position before the robot's fist or feet hit the ground they'd been standing. The trio only skidded to a stop a good hundred meter from the robot, tumbling like ragdolls on the ground.

Izuku didn't know what hurt more: his very broken arm, or his very scratched-up face.

“I... I'm pretty good at this... most of the time...”

She proceeded to hurl all over the asphalt just as the bell rang.

The robot came to a halt. The exam was over.

***

_“Far over the Misty Mountains cold_

_Through dungeons deep and caverns cold_

_We must away, ere break of day,_

_To find our long forgotten gold.”_

Bilbo Baggins had never quite understood Izuku Midoriya's obsession with heroes, or feats of heroism (in his world's definition at any rate), or 'rising above'. But there was one thing he understood very well, and that was the desire for a place to call home.

“ _The dwarves of yore made mighty spells,_

_While hammers fell like ringing bells_

_In places deep, where dark things sleep,_

_In hollow halls beneath the fells.”_

In another world, the song would have spurred Bilbo to action because of how fascinating adventuring seemed, and how moving the love for beautiful things made in the dwarves' deep places was. In this timeline, he had seen all he wanted as far as adventures and heroics went, through the compute screen in Izuku's room, whose internet browser history was full of fantastic heroes in fantastic outfits fighting fantastic enemies in fantastic places.

“ _Goblets they carved there for themselves_

_And harps of gold; where no man delves_

_There lay they long, and many a song_

_Was sung unheard by men or elves._ _”_

The only thing he felt from the dwarves' singing was none of the shallow desire for wondrous adventure, nor to see the mountains and hear pine-trees and waterfalls, nor to explore caves, and most of all nor to brandish swords instead of walking sticks. No, the only Tookish thing to awaken within him, was the understanding that adventure or no, _all Tooks had a place to return when all was said and done._

 _“_ _The mountain smoked beneath the moon;_

_The dwarves, they heard the tramp of doom._

_They fled their hall, to dying fall_

_Beneath his feet, beneath the moon.”_

The dwarves didn't. _These_ dwarves didn't.

And Bilbo thought of All Might and his idealistic heroism, and deep inside he could almost hear Izuku Midoriya's voice. “ _Because you look like you needed help,_ ” he would certainly have said.

“I'm no hero, Master Thorin and Company,” “I have neither wondrous artifacts of magic make, or quirks amount to the same. I cannot promise to help you fight a dragon.”

“And we don't-”

“But I can try, Master Thorin. I can try, and no furnace with wings should frighten me from attempting.”

The room was quiet as a grave except for Nori the tramp whispering quite audibly, “I take back everything I've said about this hobbit.”

Long did Bilbo feel Thorin's gaze on him: curious and questioning. At long last he looked up at the wizard, who was sitting and nodding sagaciously throughout the whole exchange at one corner of Bilbo's living-room blowing one flawless smoke-ring after another.

“Gandalf,” he finally said. “Are you sure about this? I cannot guarantee his safety, nor be responsible for his fate.”

His face was hard and there was something almost – no, indeed very much kingly about him. Not the mad-kings of Gondor far, far to the south who loved bloodshed and power and violence that Bilbo's mother ridiculed in her own tune. Nor the last lords of Arthedain who could but weep as the shadows over the North consumed the last bastions of the free people of Eriador.

No, here stood a good king, thought Bilbo, rough around the edges as he seemed, but one whose demeanor told of a heart in the right place.

As for the wizard? “Agreed,” was all Gandalf said, and he seemed not at all fazed.

***

The post-exam treatment had been a riot. Suffice to say he didn't much appreciate his injury being healed by an old woman kissing it; though the lack of appreciation grew into admiration and gratefulness in five seconds flat as his black-and-blue shattered arm _healed_ on the spot.

It didn't help that he didn't know what to talk to the two girls in his (current) company. At all.

He'd been walking along the road out of the examination venue with the two girls for a while now. None were speaking a single word. The awkwardness was through the roof.

The one to break through that awkwardness, as it happened, was the rescuee herself. “Uh..." She stared at the ground for a bit, then up at Izuku's face. “Thanks for saving me. Oh, by the way? My name's Uraraka Ochako. Yours?” She scratched her head. "Aah, this is so cliched, isn't it?"

“Midoriya Izuku,” said the boy. A bit more and his lung would have blown up like a clump of balloons over-pumped. And yes, she was totally right about the cliched part. “No need to thank me. You saved me too, didn't you?”

Then Mei clapped her hands and glared at them both. “Hey, bud, let's just stop at 'we saved one another's behinds', and be done with it, shall we, please?” she said. “Oh and it's Hatsume Mei here.”

Next thing Izuku saw was Ochako's hearty smile. “Well, if you put it like that...” she said. “It was kinda fun, wasn't it?”

“Preach, princess,” said Mei, and burst out laughing. could have been worse. He could have gotten zero points and broken all his limbs and ended with one week sitting like his world had literally ended.

“Well I'm of the impression we – as in Midoriya and me – haven't done too bad.”

“Have we?” said Izuku – if only to have something to say at all. For the supposed secret successor to All Might he'd done rather inadequately.

“Look, I'm supposed to be this perfectionist here and I _like_ how this ended. Six three-pointers, ten twos and five ones,” said Mei. “And since we don't have anyone to divvy the assist score with, that means forty-three for you and forty-three for me. As long as you haven't messed up the written exam badly, you should at least qualify for General at _least_.” She whacked Ochako on the shoulder. “And you, zero-G?”

Ochako puffed her cheeks. “Not like I kept count or anything... but I think I knocked out five threes and four twos?”

“Well, pretty sure you'd have gotten much more in assist,” said Izuku. “Your Quirk's pretty strong, Uraraka!”

“I hope,” she answered. She scratched her head, and smiled with both eyes closed. “Anyway, it's been real nice getting to know you guys!”

“You know what, you're right,” said Mei. “Pass or not, I wouldn't mind teaming up with you people again – just... you know, let me know beforehands before putting my cute babies through such a beating!”

Next thing Izuku knew, they were in an uproar.

All was well, it seemed, that ended well.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes and fanon:
> 
> \- Let's just say after the 150th chapter mark I'm now torn between Izuchako and Meizuku. The latter actually makes a fair bit of sense (and to my knowledge might actually be the case in certain high-profile fics on this site - case in point: Erased Potential). I've added a bit to Mei's personality as what I find would be logical, in particular a dash of military otaku-ness (because of her adoration for military-grade and explosive stuff)  
> \- Seriously, why make an entrance exam judged solely based on individual action when your graduates' work is and should be as team-based as possible, U.A.?  
> \- Tags modified a little to reflect new story elements.


	6. An Adventure Begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank-you to everyone for their continued support!
> 
> This chapter has some reference to anxiety/panic attack.

**CHAPTER 5**

**AN ADVENTURE BEGINS**

 

It was one thing to think about an adventure. Another to plan one, and another to go through with it. 

When Bilbo Baggins of Bag End woke up from his do-the-right-thing stupor, the way back had already been cut behind him. He was mounted atop a pony laden with many a supply bags, in the middle of a company of dwarves – complete strangers barely forty eight hours prior – setting out for parts no hobbits of his age had ever dreamt about.

They'd left the Green Dragon behind just yesterday, and Bilbo's first experience with camping had not been the most pleasant. There was too little cloth for his bedroll and too much sand, and his handkerchief (which he had remembered to bring) went dirty too quickly. It was the first night Bilbo had spent without a shower for a long, long time, and not the last for a very long stretch.

The trek wasn't boring by any stretch, thankfully.

The dwarves had a habit of singing very loudly and making louder jokes, and the younger dwarves – mainly Kili and Fili and less so Ori – liked to bump one another and Bilbo in the back. Normally this wouldn't have been a problem. Unfortunately, they were on pony-back most of the time. Nearly falling off the ride wasn't funny the first time and not much more humorous the next few.

The older dwarves had been quieter, and with the exception of Bombur, almost stoic but for their songs. Balin and Dwalin and Gloin kept their axes in hand most of the time, while Bifur had one in his head all the time. Bofur made it clear he was the handicapped dwarf's caretaker, and rarely talked outside of the throaty language of their kind. Bombur, too, rarely spoke, but only because he was nibbling on something every time Bilbo had turned back to look.

Dori and Oin stuck to one another as the caretaker of their respective brothers. Which was about right too: the former's siblings included Nori; and Bilbo could swear the knave and his villainous-looking mustache was out of sight most of the time.

If the road had been lively, the nightly dinner was an uproar. The dwarves, whose tendency to make for rambunctious partying had been curtailed by Bilbo's reception, wasted no time showing the world they meant  _ business _ . They'd sing, they'd hit their cutlery like drums and tambourines, the older dwarves would wrestle while the younger plan a prank or ten. Gandalf was certain to join heartily in the first, wave his hands disapprovingly at the second, and stay away from the third like the pox.

On the very second night in the wilds Bilbo was carrying some firewood to the campfire when out of a tree's shadow leaped two dwarves wearing each a huge helmet with face-plate.

“Boo!” cried a voice that was either Fili's or Kili's. “Roar!” cried another, most certainly the other sibling. The dwarves' helmet were none of the elegant sort studded with jewels and embossed with gold and silver like in their songs, but an ugly, angry, empty husk of black iron designed as much to protect as to frighten. 

It startled Bilbo for all of a blink of an eye.

“Master Kili,” said Bilbo merely lifting an eyebrow. “And Master Fili. Quite vigorous you are, aren't you?”

“Incredible!” cried the first dwarf. He took off his helmet: it was Kili and his stubble-beard. “Color me surprised, that is quite brave of you, Master Boggins!” said the second dwarf, who, obviously, was Fili behind the mask. 

“Lookie here, lookie here, our expert burglar!” said Kili. “How in the world weren't you even fazed?” 

Bilbo smiled. “I've known a boy who made things blow up by sweating on them,” he said. “You've got to do better, Master Dwarf.”

“You're making it up!” exclaimed Kili.

“Come now, Master Kili,” said Bilbo. “I've got more bewildering stories for the curious if you'd care to listen.”

Kili huffed. “Well then, surprise me!”

Surprise? More like jaw-droppingly bewilder, because that was what happened.

By the end of the night, Bilbo had got a whole bunch of dwarves gathered around him: wide-eyed Kili, trying-to-be-princely-and-failing Fili, sometimes-rowdy-and-usually-quiet Ori, and even Bombur and Balin, both of whom frankly too old for tall tales. 

And why would they not be curious? 

Bilbo had been making his very best attempt embellishing the wonders he'd seen in the other world. Machines that carried your voice and image over a thousand miles. Wagons that rolled without horses, and horses of iron and steel made. Metallic birds larger than eagles and manyfold as fast, soaring in the open sky. Contraptions that held within them all the wisdom of the world, preserved better than any elven store of books and scrolls. 

And most importantly, people not normal in any sense of the word, making a living and more plying the gift of power they were born into like a trade. He may or may not have spoken about a certain green-haired boy whose dream to become a hero despite not having that gift. 

Bombur's fat lips were pursed. “Master Baggins, you can probably talk old Smaug's wyrm-ears off!” he cried.

“I'll be sure to try,” said Bilbo, and raised both brows. “At any rate, good story-tellers have a place in every civilized world, don't they?” 

Bombur gave him a shrug, and returned to chewing on his supper of a very large slice of ham and a cheese-wedge the size of Bilbo's hand. But then over the next few days, Bilbo realized, Bombur was the only older dwarf to religiously follow his story-telling. 

***

Izuku's week waiting for the exam result had been uneventful. And rather lonely, even. 

When the intense training was done, the desperation over and the hurry no more, it dawned upon Izuku all of a sudden how lonely he had been for most of his life. Which wasn't that surprising, when he thought about it. Most of his acquaintances had been one sort of bully or another; and you wouldn't so much hang out with them than dodge them.

He'd like to fix that. How?

Well, for one thing, there was helping his mother around the house.

He'd been cleaning up the house, rearranging his room, doing the dishes, grabbing the groceries, handling the laundry and cooking dinner (the last one was a little iffy. He was still a learner in the delicate art of turning raw fish into sashimi). It was oddly refreshing, and deep down Izuku felt guilty: he'd been neglecting the work around the house ever since All Might and his American Dream Plan had taken his life by storm. 

“That's fine, Mom,” he would say with a beam every time his mother insisted he should take it easy because it'd been a harsh year and what kind of mother would not have their boy take a well-deserved break after all that? 

Izuku would smile and widen those puppy-eyes of his, and then snatch back the broomstick or ladle or whichever housework instrument as the case might be. And then he would add, “I've cleaned up far worse than this,” and he wouldn't be lying.

For the other, well, he'd given both Mei and Ochako his number, out of a politeness reflex that was both deeply Japanese and instrumentally Hobbitish rather than any desire to butt into their lives. 

He didn't know how long it took – or whose idea it was – to add him into  _ their _ group chat aptly titled “ _ Entrance Exam Arena Trap Survivors _ ”. 

It was funny, really. Izuku had never been in a group chat before. It felt like he was intruding into the conversation of others. Ochako was incredibly chatty, and Izuku supposed Mei was too, but in a way only fathomable to herself – machines and nuts and bolts and gear ratio and the latest of military hardware from the other side of the Pacific, or how many grams of which explosive you'd need to blow something up without risking anyone's life. 

He ended up not saying much. But he did spend a good chunk of his time during that week, just sitting there and reread the previous day's conversation (or whatever you would call the incoherent mass resulting from putting Ochako and Mei into a free-for-all contest of noise-making). And he would giggle, and all was good. 

At night he'd spent some brief moments thinking about the exam and how he'd done – far from perfect and certainly could have gone better. But it wasn't disappointing, and this was important: Izuku had done something  _ not disappointing _ , and that alone was good for his sleep.

And all wise folk could agree, sleep was a very, very good thing.

It all came crashing down, when Izuku woke up on a morning supposed to be Sunday, shivering on a sandy, lumpy sheet. His head was pillowing on his now-numbed arms and his throat was very sore. His body was shorter and his feet hairy. The sun had barely risen, and the air was thick with the smell of leftover cheese and sausages.

Izuku had gotten used to body-switches out of nowhere, but this? It was all he could do not to stutter and sputter unintelligibly on the spot, and not just because of the discomfort. His exam results was to come in today!

He spent five minutes just trying to brush the sand off his clothes, and found a letter tucked in the fold of his vest. Apparently Bilbo had been sleeping with a letter in his vest for however long.

_ “My dear Izuku, _

_I regret that this note would probably find you rolling in dirt and gravel rather than the warm bed at Bag End. I am sorry for not letting you know (and thus prepare yourself) earlier._

_Short story is, we are going on an adventure._

_The long story requires quite a bit more of an explanation. Consult my journal for details...”_

Izuku sat up and rubbed his head. 

_Think positive, think positive, think positive._

He forced himself to crack a smile. Sure he'd waited for all his life for that entrance exam result. Surely another day couldn't hurt, could it? So he picked up Bilbo's journal and read the whole thing very, very carefully. 

His inner meticulous observer was in a state of bliss. His inner introvert was at the same time having an aneurysm. Bilbo was travelling with a company thirteen Dwarves, and that meant thirteen more than Izuku was comfortable with. 

_Breathe in, Izuku, breathe in. Then breathe out. In. Out. In. Out. Good._

On the plus side, Bilbo had left him notes on the dwarves and their personality.

Bald-headed dwarf was the guy Bilbo had beaten in arm-wrestling the other day, and was quite adamant in training him into an axe-hobbit.

The aging dwarf with a very large nose and white beard was bald-dwarf's brother, also a veteran of many battles.

They'd have a medic-dwarf, a thief-dwarf, a dwarf with an axe stuck in his skull and his caretaker, a dedicated hammer-dwarf and a very... uh,  _pudgy_ seemed to be a perfectly neutral word, sort of dwarf who was their cook.

Then there was Short-beard-dwarf and Stubble-dwarf were brothers and nephew of the company leader.

Everyone but said company leader was still soundly asleep. The leader dwarf himself was standing over the edge of the cliff, his gaze fixed at the horizon. His hand was on the hilt of his sword, and his armor was covered in a sheen of early dew, and his back was turned towards the campsite.. 

Izuku consulted Bilbo's notes:  _“The name is Thorin Oakenshield (and I wouldn't call him Oakenshield Thorin if I were you.). Please do try to stay on his good side – last thing I need is a violent sword-happy orc-hating dwarf-king adding 'annoying hobbits' to his list of dislikes; and he only barely tolerates me as is! He just threw a tantrum last night over his nephews making jokes about orcs attacking and slitting throats, just so you know...”_

Izuku gulped, and decided it would be best to let standing Thorins, well, stand.

And then his brain started _working. Correction: Panicking._

***

“Izuku, Izuku! The results are here!”

Mrs Midoriya's loud cry tore through the air.

Bilbo stretched his currently non-hobbit body along the bed, and for a second tried to absorb the smoothness of the sheet and the mattress as though it were a tangible liquid to be mopped up. As much as Bilbo was fond of Izuku's mother as a person, he'd have appreciated it if she hadn't so nearly startled him out of his bed. It was barely nine in the morning on a Sunday, and by all laws known to men and elves and hobbits and maybe dwarves, he should still have been soundly asleep-

And then reality hit him with the force of a sledgehammer.

_Exam? Result?_

Another body-switch. There had been no body-switch since the day before Izuku's exam.

_Oh. Tarnations._

Suddenly a sense of unadulterated  _dread_ filled Bilbo. A hundred questions of how well the boy did sprang up in his head, and his imagination quickly conjured the worst possible result. He could have failed. He could have failed very badly. He could have been filled with shame and crushed by failure, and Bilbo wouldn't have known until exactly now, much less remedy it.

“Izuku? Are you okay?”

Bilbo slapped himself in the face. This was no time to be drowsy! “Yes, Mum!” he cried, and swung the door open like his life depended on it.

Outside stood a very trembling Mrs. Midoriya, sticking a very large envelope at him

“Izuku!” she cried. “The results!” , and for a second the worst scenario seemed much more likely than Bilbo was comfortable with. His lips quivered into a tiny smile as he took the envelope.

“Thanks, Mum,” he said breathlessly. “May I look at this alone?”

Mrs. Midoriya was still nodding furiously as Bilbo withdrew into Izuku's room. After awhile he started hearing many footsteps outside: Mrs. Midoriya was pacing just on the other side of the door, very possibly more excitable and anxious than Izuku himself had he been around.

Bilbo rubbed his chest and took one deep breath after another. The first order of business, Bilbo thought, was to check what Izuku had left him.

“... _They set us up to fight robots_ ,” the boy had written dated seven days prior. “ _We were supposed to work in groups – I'm lucky to have found a partner who covered my weakness (or rather she'd found me, but more on that later)..._

_... Anyway I think I've done well enough: all fingers crossed!”_

The notes went longer, but those were the only lines Bilbo needed, and could mean anything from a spectacular triumph to a barely-made-it pass, really. Izuku didn't sound _too_ depressed about the business, at any rate.

Now as his worry for Izuku's actual exam result faded somewhat, another matter came to the fore: _should_ he open the package? The boy had been, for as long as Bilbo had known him, waiting and hoping and training and training and training some more for the U.A. entrance exam. And now the result was here and he was not, and Bilbo couldn't help but feel like tearing open the envelope wasn't unlike intruding on something deeply personal for the boy.

But then there was no way he could leave the room without checking out the thing – not with Mrs. Midoriya pacing about outside like any good mother worth her salt would have.

Besides – Bilbo closed his eyes – if anyone other than Izuku deserves the right to open the pack it was _him_ , as the father figure and caretaker for the boy when his mother wasn't around. 

_Very well then, a single peek. A mere single peek..._

Hardly had the tape came undone than the rest of the envelope  _shredded itself._

_So much for a mere peek._

Inside, there was neither paper nor disc. Instead there was a small object resembling a miniature pottery bowl overly decorated.

“Very spectacular indeed, Young Midoriya!”

Bilbo very nearly jumped back. _A-All Might?_

Indeed, it was All Might, except clad in a very nice striped suit and a red-and-blue tie, in all his mirage-like glory: Bilbo's hands went right through the standing image. In this makeup the professional hero looked almost civilian and respectable by hobbit standards – almost. 

“Your performance,” he said, “was quite adequate! That's the good news!”

It took him all of five seconds to start gesturing wildly and throw 'respectability' to the four winds. 

“And if you think I'm only referring to your – ahem, kill count, then you'd be most refreshingly mistaken!” he said. “The U.A. tradition calls for heroism at all time, because what kind of hero school would not properly reward and encourage heroic conduct? The entrance exam is no exception! The judges have spoken, and awarded you with the highest Rescue score of all candidates in this exam!”

Now he was raising his outstretched right hand on the screen, and counting from one to five off the fingers. 

“Unfortunately, you were juuust a hair away from the top five. Why, you ask? Well, because the new Infraction Points system effective this year!”

Bilbo shuddered. Exactly _what_ had Izuku done in that exam?

“You see, heroes aren't meant  _just_ to do the right thing. In today's world, good judgement and self-preservation go a long way in a great hero's making! After all, it is – ahem –  _inconvenient_ to do hero work when you are hospitalized, no?” 

The hobbit found himself nodding very profusely as the image of All Might snapped his thumb. 

“That is why U.A. has judged it suitable to subtract points for self-inflicted injuries, be it caused by extreme tenaciousness, acts of heroism justifiable or otherwise, or other instances deemed a lack of good judgement!” 

The mirage shifted to the captured footstage of the exam, and Bilbo thought his heart had jumped to his throat.

Izuku was facing off against a gigantic creature the size of a stone giant in long-forgotten myths, armed with only a sling. Then he launched that rock in the creature's face, and his arm just  _bent_ in a very weird and painful sort of way, and Bilbo felt his arm twitching. Then Izuku got dragged away by the two girls he was teaming with (actually, by now Bilbo wasn't sure who was rescuing whom any more), and only then did he calm down a little.

Now that image faded, and back came All Might – beaming and waving his hands and lowering his voice to a hush-hush “Of course I don't mean to say  _you_ lacked good judgement, young Midoriya.” He thumbed at himself – more precisely, at that spot on his chest where his grievous scar lay. “Sometimes you just have to do what you have to do – even when a panel of judges disagree!”

He flicked his hand toward a board materializing behind him.

“But enough of that! Here's your score breakdown! Study it well, and take note of what you've done well and what you haven't!” 

Izuku had got 43 Villain Points, 0.5 Assist Point, 40 Rescue Points and  _minus_ 20 Infraction Points, for a total of 63.5. Next below him was a certain Tenya Iida, at 40 Villain, 12 Assist, 9 Rescue and zero Infraction. The two girls Izuku had mentioned in his notes got eighth and tenth place respectively: Mei Hatsume, 0 Villain, 40 Assist and 20 Rescue; and Ochako Uraraka, 28 Villain, 9 Assist and 20 Rescue. 

The top score was Katsuki Bakugou's 77 (unsurprisingly, all Villain Points and nothing but) followed closely by Kirishima Eijiro's 74, Shiozaki Ibara's 68, Itsuka Kendo's 65, and Tetsutetsu Tetsutetsu's 64 (Bilbo had here frowned: What kind of cruel parents would inflict such pain and suffering upon their flesh and blood?). 

Izuku happened to be the only one in the top ten with any sort of infraction at all, and thus had missed top five by one half of a point. Still Bilbo couldn't help clapping his hands to a nonexistent audience: a victory was a victory was a victory. 

All Might apparently approved.

“This is your hero academy, young Midoriya!”

So absorbed was Bilbo in hearing the mirage that only after All Might's image had vanished did he notice Izuku's smartphone had been rumbling non-stop for the last ten minutes or so. Bilbo flicked his finger across the screen. The so-nicknamed “Sniper-eyes” and “Zero-G” had been furiously messaging Izuku all the while: his message box had about sixty unread messages.

Bilbo opened the latest message, and very nearly proceeded to smash his head against the nearest book. Never would he understand the criminal, terrifying and heinous atrocity committed against the beauty of languages that was the so-called chatspeak.

It took him more time than he was willing to admit merely to figure out one simple thing: 

_The girls are inviting Izuku to tea._

***

Ponies.

Izuku wasn't sure if he liked ponies very much before, and since the early morning they'd done little to win him over as a fan.

The road wasn't too bad – by the standards of Bilbo's world. The path was clear and well-beaten by wagon wheels and travelers' sole. By the standard of Izuku's, it was a miserable quagmire of mud and dirt, filled with holes, ridges, bumps, fallen branches and the occasional horse droppings – bad for wheels and axles and noses alike. Most of all Izuku had had no idea how to properly ride a horse of any sort (and if he'd had a choice he'd have stayed away from those animals, thank you very much!)

Izuku, as per habit, took all abuses intentional or otherwise quietly. That meant bumping his sore behind on the back of a supply-laden pony. That meant keeping his handkerchief over his nose every time the pony stepped on something disagreeable (which was often). And that meant not uttering a word when he was bumped in the back by a thick dwarven knuckle.

“Oof, sorry for that, Master Boggins,” said the black-haired dwarf with stubbles for beard behind Izuku. “I thought you've learnt to dodge my bumping since yesterday!”

“Sorry,” said Izuku. “I was, uh.... just a little preoccupied.”

“Thinking of more tales to weave, no doubt?” asked his sibling, on the right.

“Hear, hear!” cried the pudgy cook. “Lookin' forward to story-time – and a good inn if we can find one on the way!” 

“Ah, uh... stories, you said?” 

“More of the same, or some new exciting fare if you have to offer!” said the white-bearded dwarf further along the column. “Quite fantabulous if I have to say so myself, made up or no. Would have made for a grand old story-teller in the Blue Mountains if you'd ever get there.”

“Well how about a travel-song or something?” demanded the twirly-stached rogue-dwarf. “Preferably the bawdy sort? Ah, wait, I could do that myself! Or a bloody violent battle song – limbs hacked and heads rolling? Anything, really, road's getting boring out here!”

“Tell us more about those tiny boxes with moving pictures!” demanded the youngest dwarf.

“Or the iron ponies that eat fire and spew smoke!”

“Food that never spoils!”

“Liquid fire that burns on demand!”

“Birds that fly to the moon!”

“Snake-wagons full of people running swifter than arrows in a good wind!”

Blood rushed to Izuku's head, and he felt his knee buckling. He was panting and puffing, and there were stars circling around his eyes. The requests shouted at him were melding together in a cacophony and it screamed  _ threat and danger  _ at him. 

_ No no no no no, brain, brain, please,  _ work _! You're a U.A. student now! Do your school proud and j-just come up with something! Anything! _

But his mouth locked up and nothing escaped it except quiet gasps. He was under threat. He was in danger. They  _ expected  _ something out of him. If he didn't deliver he would be hurt.

“Come now, my good dwarves,” said Gandalf. “Dull and trite are stories unwillingly told. Let the hobbit spin his tales when he likes and not when you prefer.”

The uproar quietened down in an instant.

“T-thank you,” murmured Izuku. “Sir.” He added.

Which reminded him. Izuku himself had never apologized to Gandalf. Or Gandalf to him, for that matter. In fact, their worlds were so far apart the thought had never occurred to the wizard that he'd hit Izuku where it  _ very much  _ hurt. Had Bilbo actually told the wizard that much?

For the rest of the travel day Izuku said nothing. Instead, he looked.

Bilbo's world was  _ gorgeous _ . 

Not the kind of beauty associated with modernity, of tall buildings and sleek architecture and wonders of engineering, nor the elegance of temples and churches and cathedrals or pagodas where the mundane supposedly communed with the divine. No, this was untamed beauty; of wild forests and wilder bushes, of mountains and hills in the distance, of streams and brooks flowing under the occasional bridges. 

There was melancholy, too: every so often they'd come across broken ruins, dilapidated towers, abandoned homesteads and other places that might have once been inhabited but had now long been abandoned to creepers and vines.

Izuku had read about some of them in Bilbo's study. This, he recalled, was land once claimed by \the Kingdom of Arthedain, and when the kingdom fell so did their many monuments and cities. Izuku never bothered himself too much with the details, though, for pure history was a boring subject no matter the world. But to see a tower broken in half, its bricks shattered and tiles scattered, and to hear the wind sweeping through the gaps in the walls like the wailing of a hundred ghost, well, that was an image not to be forgotten any time soon. 

They'd stopped for lunch in a dell near a crossroad. It was not quite the most scenic place out there, because the land was flat and scattered with rocks and boulders, and the forest about them were plain and had little wondrous flora of its own. 

So Izuku kept himself to himself while the other dwarves busied themselves cutting wood, starting fires and cooking provisions. He'd kept himself hidden rather well behind a rock, in fact, that when the white-bearded dwarf show up with some bread and bacon Izuku quite nearly jumped. In fact, if not for his grandfatherly smile and demeanor Izuku would have bolted.

The name, according to Bilbo's dossier, was Balin.  _ Better him than the other dwarves. _

“Don't mind the lads too much,” he said. “They're young and an excitable lot, Kili and Fili most of all.”

“I'm pretty sure I'm younger than them both,” Izuku blurted. Immediately he cupped his mouth.  _ What nonsense am I spouting? I'm not Midoriya Izuku, not today! _

Miraculously, Balin was nodding sagaciously. “Sure you are,” he said. “But we're dwarves, lad. We're much longer living than your folk; and after a certain age, the raw number of years in your life doesn't account for much any more. It's what you've seen, done,  _ experienced  _ that matter. And you, my lad, I assume you've seen your share of... trouble. More, at any rate, than Kili and Fili.”

He placed his thick, callused hand on Izuku's shoulder. “Until they'd seen their share of horror they're just as liable to poke you where they shouldn't.”

“You might be right, sir,” said Izuku. 

That was not what he wanted to say.

Heroes weren't meant to parade the troubles of their past – the pain and disappointment and tragedy and whatsoever else that had caused them distress, much less act upon them. 

At the same time, Izuku's bad times weren't just going to poof away because he became a hero. He might not have been bullied or pushed around as he could have been in worse circumstances, but he was  _ there  _ when crowds surrounded him for fun, or when explosions crackled in his face for fun, or when fingers were pointing and so many mouths were laughing at him, for fun also. 

“How did you know-?”

“Dwalin and I fought at Azanulbizar,” he said. “The horror never truly fades. Some of us couldn't bear to stand in crowds again, or even hear cajoling too loud.”

Azanulbizar? Izuku hadn't read anything about it in Bilbo's notes or his study. He could only assume it was a battle or disaster of some sort. “Do you-” he began, and then stopped, not sure how to voice his question without sounding as innocently inconsiderate as Gandalf had been.

“We try,” said Balin. “Sometimes we win. Sometimes we don't.” He patted Izuku on the shoulder. "Same with you. Sometimes you win, sometimes you don't. I'll try to get the lads to give you space when you need it."  


_***_

 


	7. Todoroki and the Troll-Hunters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aka. Dwarves join Dekusquad, part one

** CHAPTER 6  **

** TODOROKI AND THE TROLL-HUNTERS **

 

The hobbit glanced at his (well, Izuku's) smartphone and tried not to swoon over the enormous, nigh-infinite-scrolling map on display. The so-called Google Map had been a godsend, and not just because it appealed to Bilbo's passion for well-drawn maps. Walking amidst the forest of concrete in Greater Tokyo had never got easier for the hobbit; not with the enormous number of folks hurrying about, all caught in a hassle of their own making.

His destination was a tiny coffee stall close by the so-called Tatouin Station. Bilbo was sure the whole place, kitchen and all, was barely a quarter the size of his smial. But it was nicely decorated: bells, ribbons and flowers decorated the front, and there was a lot of the color pink. A couple of tables and chairs were placed along the pavement, under the shade of a couple of pink parasols.

At one of those tables sat two girls: a brunette wearing shorts and a long-sleeved shirt, and a pink-haired girl with a most octopus-like hairdo (very unique, Bilbo thought), in a working man's pants and braces.

“Hey, Midoriya!”

The brunette was waving at him about as hard as a weathervane in a storm. 

To revisit events: Within the space of one week Izuku Midoriya had, in no particular order, turned himself into a bit of a sling user, passed a grueling exam meant for the best and nothing but, walked away from a major injury with nothing but a literal kiss on the wrist... and befriended two girls on the spot to the point they'd invite him out for tea.  


He'd quite need a chaperon. For the purpose of the day, Bilbo was the chaperon Izuku didn't know he needed.

“You're late, Midoriya!” said the brunette – Ochako Uraraka.

“What kind of a guy are you, keeping a pair of ladies waiting?” That was Mei Hatsume, he noted.

All in all, quite a welcome party. With a huff Bilbo sat himself down at the last table.

“Well, I beg your respective pardon!” he said. “It's a Sunday and what does that mean? Sleep, plenty and deep, thank you very much!” He took off his hat, placed it on his right, and folded his arms. “At any rate, how may I be of service?”

Mei's figurative jaw hit the figurative floor. “S-suave?”

“See, told you so! You owe me first lunch at school,” said Ochako, grinning like she'd won a lottery.

A series of low grumbling noises escaped from Mei's throat – something about 'being broke' and 'need to save up' if Bilbo could trust his ears. “Fine,” she finally said.

Bilbo blinked. “What's this about?”

“We were betting on how you'd show up,” said Ochako. “Hatsume was kinda sorta convinced you'd be blushing and stuttering-” She made a circling motion above her head. “-and wear some sort of bad bed-hair.”

“Goodness gracious, me? That would be hideous manner,” said Bilbo, and deep inside he was roaring with laughter – because that was exactly what he imagined _Izuku_ would have done.

“One out of three isn't half bad!” said Mei, thumbing at Bilbo's head – more specifically at the mass of graceless green hair of his. At once Ochako started giggling, and Bilbo's eyelids twitched. Not that it was his fault: Izuku's riotous hair was untameable – never had been, never would be, and Bilbo had long surrendered before its ubiquitous rule of terror.

He harrumphed. “In all seriousness, I _am_ sorry for not catching your messages. Been a little caught up-”

“Exam result?” said Mei. “Thought so.” She added without waiting for an answer.

“I have to say,” said Bilbo, “it was a tad... unexpected.”

By which he meant, he totally didn't expect to receive the results on Izuku's behalf. The two girls, understandably, had other ideas.

“Unexpected? It's absolutely unfair!” exclaimed Ochako, holding up both fists. “They seriously gave you twenty infraction points that _nobody_ got? Not even Sir-Blow-Stuff-Up, Order of Not-Give-A-Darn-About-Others, Castle-Swear-A-Lot?”

“Yeah, where did that come from?” said Mei. She started leaning closer towards Bilbo, and her lips curled into the most _demanding_ of smiles (for want of better descriptions). “So, so, so, what did All Might tell you? Care to share?”

“Well, that's not what I meant by _unexpected._ I'd broken my arm,” said Bilbo matter-of-factly. “Seems the examiners don't think too highly of reckless display of heroism.”

“That's even less fair! You _saved_ me!” exclaimed Ochako. “Shouldn't, uh, _I_ have gotten infractions for needing to be rescued?”

“Unfortunately I'm not the judge,” said Bilbo. He paused, and then let the rabbit out of the hat. “Would it be an outrage if I said, I actually agree with them?”

At once Bilbo could feel two pairs of eyes burning a hole through him.

“Eh?” said Mei. “No offense, did you hit your head the other day or anything? Should have made you a helmet-”

“Not really, no.” said Bilbo, and his voice became stronger and more forceful before he knew it. “In fact, if I had been the judge, I'd have decked a whole lot more than twenty points! Respectable hob- I mean, respectable heroes are wont to be kind and self-sacrifice, but injuring themselves in the attempt? That's a bit... inelegant and unpleasant.” He made a show of dusting his hands. “And inefficient. You can't save more people with your arm broken or legs snapped, can you?”

Ochako's tiny brows raised quizzically. “You still _did_ save me!” she ended up saying with a huff of her own, and her cheeks turned a mite rosier. Bilbo only curled his lips into a smile.

And then a waitress in a nice frilly dress came around with a smile and a menu, and that was the end of that.

The next half an hour passed rather quickly. Bilbo had found teenage gossip to be a bit like a teller of bad jokes: giggly, ridiculous at best and without end in sight – though not being a teenage girl himself might have had something to do with it.

But then he wouldn't extend the criticism to the girls themselves. Ochako was terribly energetic and once every often would smile and ask him if he was okay just hearing them talking 'girl stuff'. And Mei, well, she was exactly like Izuku said she was – which meant a wee too enthusiastic about machines of all sorts – and Bilbo had trouble convincing himself he had problems with that.

Besides the gossip had done him some good: Bilbo had found out, in no particular order, that the Uraraka family owned a construction agency under hard times, that Mei's obsession with explosions and military hardware was hereditary, and that both girls had some _very_ personal reasons for applying into U.A. Being the gentle-hobbit he was, Bilbo did not dig any further.

“So we're all going to be classmates!” Ochako said. “I mean, Class 1-A has twenty slots right? We've all made top ten, so-”

“Nah, pretty sure they allow you to have a say,” said Mei. “Been shooting for Support from the start. It wasn't all that necessary to have scored that high in the exam.” She took a sip of orange juice. “Not that I complain.”

Ochako shot her a very piercing, blinkless stare.

“Don't look at me like that! Look, Support is all about creating cuteness, see? Heroic is all about using or smashing it. Kind of obvious _where_ I'd like to go.”

“Hatsume,” said Ochako. The tone of her voice _fell_ into a low whisper – so low it made Bilbo shudder. “Your definition of cute is different from ninety nine percent of society, you know that don't you?”

“Says society,” said Mei with a shrug.

And then she snapped her finger. “Oh, and speaking of cuteness, Midoriya?” she said. “Got a little something for you right here...”

She produced from her backpack a small case and unlocked it before Bilbo could say no.

Inside... Bilbo could best describe the leather-and-steel contraption as a sort of sling connected to a right-hand gauntlet. He felt the fabric of the glove: It was remarkably thick and supple, like a cotton-filled kitchen glove. The sling itself felt half like cured leather and half like rubber, and five times as thick as the headbands Izuku had been using.

“Come _on._ You aren't debuting in U.A. with a beat-up sling, are you?” She winked. “Isn't she a cute little thing?”

“She. You call this 'she'.” Bilbo repeated. “Quite humorous, I daresay. What have I done to deserve this?”

“Forty points' worth of Assist!” said Mei. “See, I don't know all that much about your quirk, but obviously if you're gonna be hurling stuff so hard your arm breaks you're gonna need some sort of a shock buffer. That means industrial-grade ultra-elastic rubber padding. I'm still working on wrist support and it's really tricky to balance flexibility with reinforcement. Steel splints looks good on paper, but it's cumbersome as it comes and-”

Bilbo blinked. “So it's still not done?”

“Of course! This is only Sling Support Glove version 0.7-something at best!” Mei said. “Only so much I can do without data and supplies. Now if only I'd got a bigger workshop and more material to play with-”

“Come to think of it,” said Ochako. “What _is_ your quirk again, Midoriya? I mean it can't be healthy to live with a quirk that breaks you every time you use it too hard, can it?”

“I get quite a bit stronger when the needs arise. With certain downsides, predictably,” said Bilbo – again, matter-of-factly. “I've got a grand-uncle who performed in a pinch an incredible feat with a stick once upon a time, so maybe that's where it came from.”

Technically _Bilbo_ wasn't lying.

Ochako furrowed her brows. And then her big round eyes widened. “So, if you have this uncontrollable burst of strength whenever you get in trouble, enough to break your own arm,” she said, “that'd be really _bad_ for hero work wouldn't it?”

At once the table froze in silence. Ochako's hands immediately moved to cover her mouth.

“Uh... I'm sorry,” said Ochako, and the pink on her cheeks went a little redder, and she started waving her hands about quite profusely. “I didn't mean to- to be condescending or anything, um...”

Bilbo found the enthusiasm quite amusing.

“That's why I try to adapt,” he said, and thought it was the best response he'd had for the day. “Why, I think this glove would be a good start as any! Thank you, Hatsume – suppose I'll give it a whirl and see what I can make of it.”

Mei slammed her hands on the table. “You read my mind, Midoriya!” she said. “Remember to tell me all about it!”

Bilbo did not quite pay the farewells too much of his mind.

He did, however, see Ochako paying for herself and Mei.

***

Lunchtime for Thorin's Company had passed quickly. The afternoon's ride had not. 

Izuku had kept himself to himself for the most part, and out of his body the only part constantly working was his brain. Once every so often he'd cast a sideways glance at one of the dwarves around him, and mumbled their names and personality – as quietly as he could, which wasn't as quiet as it could have been, because he was getting odd looks from the rest of the dwarves all the time.

The dwarves had kept him well enough alone since lunch, and there was this nagging feeling within Izuku he'd been trying to keep down. 

_ Did I overreact? _

He stole a glance at Kili and Fili. Neither was talking, and Bilbo had noted they were normally a bit more talkative than he should like. The other dwarves spoke about as much, or if they did it was in hushed whispers – or, for Bifur and Bofur, in an inaudible tongue of their own. 

Had Balin really told them to leave him be? Or did they realize they'd been making him feel uncomfortable and were adjusting? And, and, and, more importantly, did they hate Izuku now – which meant Bilbo too when he'd come back to his own body?

_ It's my fault. It's my fault. It's my fault, my fault, my fault- _

As it happened, Izuku's self-flagellation lasted most of the afternoon. It was not yet dark, though the sun was just about to plunge below the horizon, when Thorin's entourage found themselves in the company of strangers. 

Traveling in the opposite direction was a group of four men, tall and grey-clad. They seemed to have appeared out of nowhere: one moment Izuku was minding his own business, the next the group of strangers were already upon them. 

“Hail, travelers,” said the man in the front, and raised the palm of his hand. 

He was a young man, burly and sullen, wearing a grey cloak and hood frayed at the edge with a silver six-pointed star brooch on his chest. His companions were equally grim and similarly dressed, and their gaze reminded Izuku of how Endeavor would stare down a villain. Each was carrying a very large coil of rope with a hook at one end, and a bow slung across their shoulder.

At once each of the company glanced at one another. Some stretched their back trying to catch a glimpse of the strangers. Others checked their blade and axes. Thorin rode forward. 

Then the leader looked across the company, from Thorin to Gandalf and all the way to Izuku. His gaze softened. “Halbarad Dunadan, Ranger of the North I am,” he said. “What brings you West of Eriador, masters dwarves?”

Now Thorin had ridden to an arm's length with the ranger, and exchanged a brief bow. “Thorin, of Ered Luin, and his company,” he said. “We travelled here to visit friends and kin, and shall shortly depart for hearth and home.”

“Then I advise you move with all haste,” said the ranger. “Keep to the road if you can and avoid the thickets if you cannot.”

“What troubles these parts?” asked Thorin.

“Wild trolls,” said Halbarad. “They hide in their cave by day and prowl the wilds by night, attacking travelers and the populace alike.”

“Trolls, you said?” said Thorin under his breath. His grip on the rein seemed tighter than normal.

“Three and quite vicious each,” said Halbarad. “Call themselves Bert and Tom and Bill. We have been tracking them for many days with scant success.”

Now Izuku might be no linguist, but something sounded _really_ wrong to his ears. “They don't sound like names you'd think of when you think 'troll', are they?” he said.

The ranger's grim eyes met Izuku's. “No, my good master hobbit; not, at any rate, if they were with the Enemy,” he said. “But trolls are stupid and easy to fixate. It isn't unthinkable that they named themselves after people they killed, and after a while the stolen names stuck.”

And then the ranger dropped the next bombshell.

“Between themselves they ate a village and a half,” said Halbarad, “and many a lone traveler on the Great West Road.”

Izuku's hands had clenched into fists before he knew it.

“Excuse me, if these trolls are so dangerous-” he said, his voice hesitant at first and grew more determined with every word. “Do you... do you need... would you like any help?”

Suddenly Izuku found himself awash with that familiar feeling: of the entire class staring at the quirkless kid who wanted into U.A. The only differences were, this time it was dwarves rather than his middle school classmates, and there was no Kacchan around.

The silence squeezed around Izuku's chest like a giant crushing hand.

“Ha. Ha. Ha. Very funny, Mister Burglar. Oh wait, you're actually serious!” said the twirly mustached dwarf. “No offense, rangers. You're doing a grand job, pretty sure.”

“None taken, master dwarf,” said Halbarad. He looked at Izuku, and for the briefest of moment he looked like he was smiling. “Thank you, master hobbit. Not many of your kind would make us such offers, though we have to refuse. We wish not to concern the gentle folk of the Shire with out burden.”

“Then I shall not keep you, good Rangers,” said Thorin. “Good journeys and good hunting to you.”

“And good tidings to you, good dwarves,” said Halbarad.

Then the two companies parted. The four rangers, their frayed cloaks and hoods billowing in the wind, vanished into the forest as suddenly as they had come.

Gandalf looked around the company. “Surely you would not lend them axes and swords in assistance, Master Thorin?” he said.

“There is no need,” said Thorin. “We have enough of a burden on our shoulders as is. Besides, we are foreigners in a foreign land, lest you forget.”

“One ranger can track down a troll or three well enough,” said Gandalf. “But in the dead of night a single troll could slaughter many a Dunadan. The Chieftain before last of their people, if you are aware, was slain in battle with many of his finest by hill-trolls.”

“All the more reason we should stay away,” said Thorin. “Besides, you heard the man yourself. He wanted no help from us.”

Gandalf said nothing. The company said nothing. Izuku said nothing, too. But he was looking through the rank of dwarves and saw the younger narrow their eyes and wring their hands, while the older were shuddering. And Gandalf was looking very subtly displeased: his brows were standing underneath his hat.

Then Thorin turned towards Izuku, and his ice-cold stare froze him to the core.

“And, Mister Burglar, lest you forget.” His voice was deep and cold. “Do not go about offering help to strangers without my consent. You might think yourself helpful, but this is still _my_ company.”

It was nearly as much a self-esteem-boosting experience for Izuku as Kacchan telling him what a worthless, quirkless _Deku_ he had been.

So after dinner that day Izuku stole away again before anyone could notice, and hid under the bough of a great oak tree. He wrapped Bilbo's cloak close about him, and let his thoughts wander to bitter places. Or, he would have let his thoughts wander to bitter places, of fear and anxiousness and abandonment and whatever other depressive thoughts as would rear their ugly heads once every so often despite his best efforts, had the dusty troll-trackers not seized his mind first.

Bilbo's world had had no shortage of heroes, those of mythical proportions in particular, all kind of colorful and amazing; yet of those heroes mostly only stories remained now. But on that road then, well, Izuku was sure those were heroes. Heroes whose costume were ragged cloaks that nobody took photos of, whose heroics were waiting for days on end on the dirt-caked trail and tracking down monsters to whom nobody stood up any more, who never wore a smile like a banner because nobody cared to look, and whose quirks were nothing but their wit and the strength of their sword-arms.

They were heroes precisely because they bore all that burden where nobody saw them, where the odds was against them, and where recognition was out of the question.

Suddenly something kindled within him, and Izuku thought he'd like to become a hero like that: not the greatest hero who defended peace simply by existing, but a nameless, unsung hero who did what was right in a world unkind to both heroes and heroics.

“There you are, lad.”

Izuku's thought process snapped in half. He looked up: It was Dwalin the bald dwarf.

Izuku stirred and faced him: the dwarf was sullen and stone-like, but there was that vestige of a smile cross his face that made Izuku immediately think of chocolate dusting on black coffee.

“Hope you aren't holding it against Thorin,” he said. “That's who he is.”

“I... it's my fault,” Izuku said. “I've spoken out of turn. And-” He choked. “-and I overreacted. This morning, and-”

Dwalin sat himself down on the tree stump opposite to Izuku. “If it's the relatively peaceable and quiet travel you're concerned about, lad, don't,” he said. “I don't know exactly what could have possibly come over you this morning, and at any rate Balin said I shouldn't press you for answers you aren't willing to give. But don't think I didn't notice when you woke, lad.”

Izuku shivered. “When I... woke?” Did he do something to blow Bilbo's cover?

“You look... bewildered. Disheartened. Frightened, even.” He paused. “It wasn't a _normal_ nightmare fueled by indigestion, was it? We should have given you space before it became obvious you needed it. The only dwarves around who'd have trouble understanding such needs are Kili and Fili and Ori, because of their age rather than any ill will. In any case they probably think quite highly of you already, lad, that you'd have to do a lot worse before they even start disliking you. ”

_Oh. So that is why._

To say a weight was lifted from Izuku's chest was an understatement. “I... thank you, Mister Dwalin,” said Izuku. “I... I can't tell you about it, I really can't, but I'm feeling quite a bit better already!”

“That's the spirit,” said Dwalin. “Oh, and don't bother yourself too much about Thorin's words as well. Sure you've got nothing but goodwill in mind, I'm sure.”

Izuku smiled. “I guess,” he said, and looked up. In the sky the stars were twinkling, and a soft breeze was blowing through the trees along the road. “I... was just wondering if I'm the only one who find them... heroic. The rangers, I mean.”

“I assure you, lad, you aren't alone in that way,” he said. “By Mahal, I find their cause respectable, but hopeless. Or perhaps it is respectable  _ because  _ it is hopeless.” The dwarf placed the two large wooden sticks at his feet. “Do you hobbits get to see the rangers often?” he asked.

“I'm afraid not,” said Izuku. “They... keep to the shadow.”

His mind wandered back to the journal of the teenage Bilbo, and in his head appeared a vivid image: a trio of rangers, dusty and tired, pushing a food cart going from house to house in the hungry Shire one winter years ago.

“I thought as much,” said Dwalin. “They seldom come to our land, not when Erebor was the jewel in the North and certainly not after it fell to ruin. Yet there was a time many centuries before when our people and theirs fought together.”

 _It didn't have to be this way_ went unspoken – which confirmed an observation Izuku had made earlier.

“Mister Dwalin?” Izuku said. “You didn't agree with Thorin when he... told us to leave. Did you?”

Dwalin looked up. “So you knew?”

Izuku nodded. “You were fidgeting with the handle of your axe,” he said. “And you've got this scowl on your face when Master Thorin told me off. Very briefly.”

The dwarf's smile grew. “Aye, can't say I didn't,” he said. “Thorin's not the only dwarrow with a bone to pick with trolls and orcs around here, put it that way. 'sides, it doesn't rest well with me seeing the innocent dead unavenged.”

“Then why didn't you say anything?”

“Because I'm not king and Thorin is,” said Dwalin. “Now don't get me wrong, lad. Thorin Oakenshield... in these days and age you aren't finding any better among Durin's Folk. But when you're king, errant heroism was less compelling and more... folly. Because you have responsibilities. People who look to you for protection and care.”

“That hardly seems fair to people who need help, is it?" asked Izuku.

Dwalin laughed. “Fair?" he said. "Life hardly ever is. Even if you were strong enough to help everyone, would it not make sense to help your own first? Lord, family, axe-brothers, friends, in that order. The stranger across the street, should they not be way down the priority list?” His voice was lower now, and far more melancholic. “That's what it means to be a dwarrow – to be _khazad_ , lad.”

“But you don't sound like you're fine with it,” Izuku pointed out.

The bald dwarf let off a dry throaty chuckle. “I'm not fine with a lot of things, my dear lad,” he said. “That's what it means to be _khazad_ too. Many are our kings who lay slain by enemies so fell and fierce as to be unconquerable, and just as many of our cities and halls now lie in ruin. Erebor is only the latest among the multitude. We _have_ to look after our own first and above all, because nobody else would.”

A hundred things jumped to Izuku's throat at the same time. Why wouldn't they try again? Why wouldn't they band up with others? Why wouldn't they do something different? Why wouldn't they-

And then it suddenly dawned to Izuku he was just an inch away from doing exactly what Gandalf was before: making presumption about someone he knew little about. Except it wasn't just someone – as in singular – this time, but an entire people who'd been scattered to deities-know how many places.

“I... am sorry to hear,” he said. Guilt welled up within him – for want of anything better to say.

Dwalin's large palm fell on Izuku's shoulder. “Lad, do not underestimate the dwarves' resilience in body and mind. We're quite used to hardship now, it would be strange to hear such soft words.” He laughed. “S'ppose that's why I'm the guardsman of the King Under the Mountain.”

Izuku's lips trembled and his eyes were wet, and he didn't know if it was because of the whack (which was nearly as painful as a punch) or because of what he was hearing.

“At any rate I'm getting a mite over my head. Best to keep yours where your mouth is, lad. Life isn't a storybook.” He wrung his hands, then patted on the two sticks at his feet. “Now should I drag you out there and beat you to a pulp with these until you know which end of an axe goes into the enemy?”

Izuku thought and thought and thought, and decided he liked the sound of that.

When he went to bed that day, the second most pertinent thing on Izuku's mind was that Bilbo would wake up the next day with quite a few aches and bruises. Dwalin was as merciless a trainer as he was a keen warrior.

The most important thing was that Izuku knew now which end of an axe should go into the enemy.

***

The beach of Dagoba looked much more alluring when Bilbo wasn't being forced to clean it up. The waves were washing against the gilded sand, and the sky was deep blue.

Mei was absolutely correct. Bilbo couldn't wait to test the glove out, and he supposed Izuku would have been even more eager. There was simply no better shooting range among Tokyo's endless cityscape than a beach site.

He drew a deep breath and put on the glove. The rubber padding on the inside of the glove was surprisingly snug and pleasant – a good first impression as any. The leather was smooth, and the sling's fabric was almost unimaginably tough.

Now Bilbo looked to a sea mark floating in the distance – three hundred paces away if he could hazard a guess; a nice, solid green thing maybe two meters tall like a miniature bell-tower. and with a swift turn of his wrist, flicked the sling around and around above his head. It whistled mere inches above the buoy with such force that the bell affixed to it began ringing.

Bilbo silently thanked Yavanna he did _not_ hit the mark _._ He was in a way a respectable hobbit still, and _goodness gracious_ , respectable hobbits would not commit vandalism!

He spent the rest of the afternoon acquainting himself with the glove in ways less dangerous and threatening to public property.

By the time the sun sank into the horizon, the hobbit had loosed well over two hundred pebbles. Each had sailed further than his hobbitish eyes could follow, and so vanished into the endless blue that it seemed to him as if the horizon had swallowed it. Bilbo could not so much test the keenness of his aim nor the power of his bullets, though he believed himself not worse than he had been throwing stones as a fauntling.

Based on such indisputable empirical evidence, Bilbo decided that the sling-gauntlet was perfect for Izuku, and took it off for the day.

It was about this time, too, that he noticed he wasn't the only one chucking rocks at the sea.

He didn't recall when that boy had come around, so absorbed as he was. Or perhaps the boy was just that good at vanishing out of sight.

Yet there was absolutely nothing about this boy that suggested he was any good at staying unnoticed. His hair was two-colored, for starters: white on one side and red on the other. There was a very large scar covering a quarter of his face just below the red side of his hair: a burn perhaps, or another sort of unfortunate accident. It was the kind of face that would make you stand out in a crowd of ten thousand.

Bilbo tried not to gawk, but there was something mesmerizing about the boy that made it hard to tear his eyes off him, like a wrecked wagon or a disastrous natural occurrence. He was picking up pebbles, too, but he wasn't exactly practicing the aim of his throw. After the first few splashes he'd made, it became obvious he was _very_ angry with something. But his lips were pressed together and betrayed no further emotion except sullenness.

And then he whipped his head around, and his cold blue eyes _drilled_ into Bilbo.

“What are you looking at?” he demanded, and at once Bilbo realized he'd committed quite a gaffe.

“Ah, pardon my intrusion,” Bilbo said. “I thought I'm the only one out here at this beach tossing pebbles at the sea.”

The boy's stare softened – but only just. “What I do is my business,” he said. Then his gaze moved down to Bilbo's right hand, and the corner of his mouth raised. “A sling?”

“Well, yes, it's a sling,” said Bilbo. “A bit on the fanciful side, but yes, a pretty good one if I said so!”

The boy's fists clenched. His stare intensified, cold like ice.

“What... is your name?” he finally asked under his breath.

“Bil- I mean, Midoriya Izuku,” he said. “At your service and yours.” He stuck out his hand.

The boy did not take it. “Are you by any chance related to the Midoriya Izuku who's attending U.A. starting this term?”

Which was awfully blunt for a stranger to ask, Bilbo thought. He tried not to be too offended: the boy was probably no older than Izuku – and probably not properly brought up in gentlemanly etiquette. “I am him.” His voice was lower now, and more cautious.

“I see,” said the boy. “So this is what the examinee with _that_ quirk looks like.”

“Excuse me? What are you implying?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Just curious about the _infraction_ boy.”

Now Bilbo decided he wasn't too fond of this boy or his lack of tact. “Infraction boy? I'm afraid I have to take exception to that!” he said, putting on his best stern-governess impersonation.

Then again, Bilbo had never been a stern governess and it showed.

“But it is true,” the boy said, obviously not giving a care. “Everyone's talking about a boy who did a number on the arena trap by _throwing rocks_ at it.”

“And what is it to you?”

“Like I said, _just curious_.” He tucked his hands into his pockets. “Your quirk is obviously extremely strong to have achieved that much. You could even have been top of the class with just that quirk. Yet you threw that advantage away, losing points to infraction. The way U.A. favors powerful quirks, I can't imagine why it happened.”

“Well I find that quite rude to ask,” he said. “Therefore I don't have to answer at all!”

“You don't need to,” said the boy. “Your attitude is answer enough.”

 _Pot calling kettle black, my lad?_ “My attitude?”

“You're so easily provoked.” the boy said. “That's a weakness. Lack of discipline won't do at U.A.”

“Well, thank you for the reminder,” said Bilbo, shrugging one shoulder. He simply wasn't winning this so-called argument, he'd realized.

“Just a friendly warning. Don't for a second think it is going to be so easy at U.A. that you can thrive on just a strong quirk alone.”

“I'll take it under advice,” said Bilbo, and now it was his turn to press his lips into a thin line.

“See that you do,” the boy said. He turned around, waved his hand and began walking away.

“Excuse me!” called Bilbo, and it was all he could do not to sound too miffed. “You haven't even told me your name!”

“Todoroki Shouto,” he said. “I look forward to seeing a proper performance at school. Don't disappoint me.”

Bilbo really had nothing to say to that. He stood there, his eyelids twitching as the boy walked up the stairs, hands still tucked in his pocket, and vanished into the hustle and bustle above.

In any case, Bilbo Baggins couldn't possibly imagine himself being overly fond of Shouto Todoroki any time soon.

_Better let Izuku know to keep his eyes open._

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes and fanon:
> 
> \- The trolls: I've always had problems with how the trolls in The Hobbit have such amazingly out-of-place names compared to just about everything else in the Legendarium. I'm trying to explain it away as the trolls taking the names off someone they killed because, well, they're trolls and probably found it funny.  
> \- Writing pre-Sport Festival Shouto is HARD. On one hand, he was then a rude, single-track, emotionally stunted, utterly introverted boy whose upbringing courtesy of Todoroki "Must Beat All Might At All Cost" Enji had most likely scrambled all his sense of human priorities. On the other, he's supposed to grow enormously throughout canon, and I have to put a quota on how much growth he can have at any given time for the sake of pacing. This means a Shouto who is not (yet) the hot-and-cold cinnamon roll as you are probably well acquainted with.  
> \- For much the same reason, writing pre-development Ochako is also quite hard. She's also a character who grows steadily along the way, though not quite as dramatic as Shouto. Until at the sports festival arc she's the resident Nice Girl, and her biggest moment in canon until that point ("Can I give him some of my points?") is unfortunately no more because of how I reworked the exam. I gave her a bit of a "over-enthusiastic girl prone to say the wrong thing for the right reason" trait to balance her out until she's got her very much needed character growth.


	8. A Elbereth Gilthoniel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The universe had apparently conspired to make the previous day the worst for Izuku since the hobbit had known the boy."
> 
> Much violence ensues in this chapter.

**CHAPTER 7**

**A ELBERETH GILTHONIEL**

 

Izuku woke up not to his warm bed and blanket, but rather to the smell of ash, smoke and old sweat. Shouts and cries and things whistling by had woken his ears before the rest of his body followed.

“Arise, arise now lad!” a voice cried by his ears. It was Dwalin – and Balin behind him again.

“W-what's happening?”

“The trolls,” said Balin. “They found us. The rangers found them. We're trying to hold the line!”

At the word 'troll' Izuku sprang up, and rushed to the fore.

Before him there was chaos. Several trees about the clearing was ablaze. In the middle there were the trolls, tall and lumpy like big mounds of rock and concrete cast in humanoid shape; clubs and rocks in hand. A figure in grey lay face-down in the mud, not moving. Three grey-clad figures were circling around the troll, brandishing swords and bows.

Just behind the rangers – that was who they were – stood Thorin, sword in hand and shouting in a nasally language alien to Izuku. Kili and Bombur were shooting arrows and flinging pebbles as quickly as they can, only to bounce off the trolls' mountain-like forms. Ori and Oin were dashing back and forth from one pony to another, gathering and driving them back away from the fighting. The rest were forming a semi-circle around the ponies and their supply bags. They hefted high their spears and axes; their feet while inching backwards one step after another.

But the trolls' strides were long, and their clubs huge, and arrows were sticking from their body at various places and they. Would. Not. Stop.

“Stay with the ponies, lad,” said Dwalin. “Safer that way.”

And then the two brothers lifted their axes. “ _Baruk khazad! Khazad-ai-menu!_ ” they cried, and rushed to the front.

Izuku did what he was told – except not all of it because sitting back while a battle was raging and people were dying was not what it meant to be Midoriya Izuku. So he watched. He clutched his chest. He bit back the scream on his lips.

And then he reached into his pocket, out of reflex because that thing _had_ to be there, right? And it was: Izuku dragged out every single handkerchief Bilbo might have had on his person. His fingers were dexterous, but not nearly enough, because it took him minutes to tie them all into a single strip good enough to sling around a rock without snapping. 

In that minute, a troll's club had dropped on one of the surviving rangers' head with a thwack and a crack. His silhouette slumped on the ground and melded into the blackness of the unlit ground.

_No!_

“What do you think you're doing, Mister Baggins?”

Izuku ignored the voices and knew not if it came from Oin or Ori. He bent over, his hand combing the dirt for a rock of any sort. He found one: a round stone, rough and mossy and so icky to the touch, and mounted it on the

In those seconds, the other two trolls were turning towards the dwarves' column.

“Stay. Away. From. Them!” He cried, and let loose the makeshift bullet.

The rock shot forth, zipping over the dwarves' heads. It smashed into the closest troll's shoulder with a  _thud_ as if hitting another rock. But the sling was deceptively destructive in a strong hand, and Bilbo's body was no less strong than a professional warrior: The creature staggered backwards with a yowl. 

Now the dwarves were falling back still: their spears were short and axes shorter, and the troll's club was the size of a grown man. Izuku picked up the next rock, as big as his fist and more jagged, and spun his sling.

“I. Said. Stay. Away!”

His fingers were not alit with lines of green. There was no dull pain of One For All in the act. There was only Izuku, in Bilbo's flesh, quirkless as the day he was born. The rock fell on the second troll, and there was a hideous crack.

Izuku had missed its head, but it had now dropped its club and was clutching its right hand with its left.

The third ranger charged forth, brandishing a bright sword almost as long as he was tall. With a battle cry he rushed the disarmed troll, sprang up and drove the steel upwards from its navel to the back of its neck.

The first troll roared. It spun around, its club swung in a massive arc. The blow hit the ranger across the torso. Whatever was left of him was sent flying, and hit a tree a dozen meters away with a sickening crunch.

In that one moment of clarity, the truth dawned to Izuku. The rangers had bows with them and quivers of sharp arrows. Yet they were charging in, fighting in the melee – because they were trying to protect the dwarves.

Hysteria and horror and  _so much guilt_ crushed every other thing in Izuku's head to a pulp.

“Eye, Kili! In the eyes”

Izuku did not know whose voice it was.

But he couldn't see. The troll was standing right there before him, maybe twenty meters away, and Izuku couldn't see its eyes behind its visor.

_I can't do it. I can't. I can't._

With trembling hands he hoisted another stone up anyway. “Heads down!” he cried – less like a shout and more like a sob. 

He aimed halfway down its face because that was where eyes were, right? Right? At that moment, the kind and polite and pure Izuku was shooting to  _kill_ . The realization coursed through Izuku like a blinding poison, and suddenly nothing else matter but  _shoot_ and  _kill_ . 

The rock slammed into the monster's visor with a crunch. 

Thorin's eyes flashed. “ _Du Bekar!_ ” he cried, and rushed the yowling troll. Behind him first came Balin and Dwalin, then Dori and then Bofur and Bifur shouting and hollering, then Gloin with his huge hammer. They knocked down the troll with their weapons, and then chopped and hewed at it till it moved no more.

Now there was one troll standing. It stopped for a second, its head turned left and right to its dead fellows.

Then it ripped off its own helmet and _stared_ at the dwarves. Its eyes were blood-red, its gaping mouth let out a howl that rocked the night.

Thorin flinched. Thorin, the head of the Company and heir to a dwarven throne, flinched.

There was only one thing Izuku could do now. He brought up the largest rock in sight: it barely fit his hand. He mounted the rock, bit his lip so hard he could taste blood, and spun and spun and _spun_.

His fingers weren't flashing green and red, but he could almost hear his ligaments groaning.

Did he break anything?

Did it  _matter_ if he broke anything? 

The handkerchiefs ripped, and from it flew the rock so hard it crashed into the troll's head and sank _into_ it completely. The howl that hit Izuku's ears was like pain and anguish and _death_ given sound.

Now the last ranger stepped to the fore, and picked up his own sword. He panted hard, then hoisted his great long sword high. “ _Ecthelion_!” he cried, and drove the bright steel through the screaming troll's chest.

The blade sank to the hilt, and the troll slumped to its knee. Within moments it was no more.

The battle was over.

Izuku's trial was not.

The back of Izuku's throat caught a thoroughly revulsive stench, like rotting fish and spoiled milk and month-old sweat. His eyes saw stars; his head rang like a hundred bells. He staggered to the nearest tree trunk – thankfully not so far away.

Izuku could not recall if he had never been so violently sick.

He wiped his mouth with a hand covered in dirt and sand, and slumped down the root.

The next moments passed by in a blur. He could vaguely recall being scooped up by a man very tall and gruff, and feel his face against the dusty cloak on his shoulder.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!”

Izuku's cries faded into a whimper. The last thing he saw was a small pouch that smelled like wild flowers on a the bank of a brook, where he'd extended a hand to Bakugou Katsuki and had it batted away.

Something very warm washed over him – like the first light of a new day.

_“Sleep, brave master hobbit.”_

***

The last time Bilbo Baggins woke up to so much _pain_ was many years ago. He was a wee fauntling then, and had just learnt for the first time that gravity was a very harsh mistress, and high trees and shoddy climbing did not mix.

His right hand throbbed with sharp pain, and there were lesser bruises all over his body, more bothersome than hurtful. Rancid bile was rising in his throat, as was the stench of sick.

“Ah, now you're awake,” said a familiar voice.

Bilbo's eyes opened to Oin the dwarf carrying to his side a water skin.

“Watch it now, my good sir! Your wrist is sprained pretty bad.”

Indeed, it was a little hard to stand up from his bedroll with only one working arm and dull aches all over, and it took him a bit of time to do just that.

Bilbo took the waterskin, nodded quickly, and took a sip. He gargled and spitted out the residues of a very unpleasant _something._ He swallowed the next mouthful, and suddenly felt ravenously hungry, like he'd gone through the last day with nary anything in his stomach.

“What -” Bilbo's question was punctuated by a grimace. “-exactly... happened?”

Oin stared at him with an exaggerated curl of his lips. “You don't remember?”

“Assume I don't,” said Bilbo.

Oin scratched his mane-like hair. “Well, that might be a blessing in disguise if you asked me. You were quite beat up last night!”

At once dread welled in Bilbo's heart. “Oh, no,” he murmured. “Izu- I mean, is everyone all right?”

“Healthy and hale as they come, except you!” said Oin. “Well, for the Company anyway. The rangers didn't fare that well, I'm afr-”

_Rangers? As in the Rangers of the North?_

“Master Oin,” he said, and it was all he could do not to grab the dwarf's collar and shake him till he spilled. “Please, this is important. Tell me – tell me everything you recall from last night. Everything!”

“Now why would you want that?” asked Oin. “Far as I know, your head's blocked off all of the stuff for a reason. It would be unwise to-”

“Please, sir,” begged Bilbo again, and Oin relented.

“O very well,” he said. “But I hold no responsibility if your head implodes!”

So Bilbo sat up nursing his sprained wrist and listened as Oin ran through the previous day's events again. About his (well, Izuku's) freak-out in the morning, about the quiet and afternoon ride because of the aforementioned, about the meeting with the rangers of the North. Bilbo was shivering, and he could almost praise himself for only reacting so much.

And then Oin recounted the clash between the Company and the ranger versus the three trolls, and Bilbo's throat seized.

“Thorin thought they might be trying to protect us,” the medic said. “and decided to have us fight as defensively as we could. Luckily it all worked out.”

_Worked out? I beg to differ!_

The universe had apparently conspired to make the previous day _the_ worst for Izuku since the hobbit had known the boy. How would Izuku Midoriya take having someone _dying_ before his eyes, worse, to protect a group with him in it? That same kind-hearted young man who'd written so many “I AM SORRY” for him for events completely beyond his control? Who'd felt he didn't deserve the chance of his lifetime because he hadn't earnt it? Who'd broken his arm using a quirk he _knew_ he couldn't control to save an absolute stranger?

Bilbo never gambled, but he'd wager Bag End and his title to everything he owned that the answer was “Very badly”.

“You doing all right, Master Baggins?” asked Oin. “I already warned you-”

“I am, I am,” said Bilbo, thoroughly not convincing even himself much less the dwarven medic. “Well, even if I'm not, I thought I should try to recall.”

Oin threw his hands in the air with a huff. “Suits yourself, master Baggins,” he said, and turned about. “Better get plenty of rest. That hand would heal itself, but only if you wouldn't move about too much.”

“Where's Gandalf? Thorin? Everyone?” Bilbo asked – more to distract himself from Izuku's plight rather than any desire to know – for the moment?

“Off looking for the trolls' hoard,” said Oin. “By Mahal, I would have liked to be there, too. Lots of treasure for the taking, all on a first-come-first-serve basis.”

Then a thought flashed in his mind: Izuku would have liked to see the last ranger – see how he was doing if not offering help of any kind at all.

Perhaps Bilbo could do the same. “The last ranger,” he asked. “Where did he go?”

“Last I checked he was burying his companion,” said Oin. “What a way to go, those rangers. I wouldn't wish 'being killed by trolls' on my worst enemies!”

Bilbo's body moved before he could think; he cradled the sprained arm about him, and took off as quickly as his hairy feet allowed him.

“Hey, watch your arm!” trailed Oin's voice behind him.

“Will do, my good sir!” he shouted back, and then was off.

***

Izuku woke up with a scream.

Or rather, he would have screamed, but the sound evaporated in his throat. Instead it was his tears that flowed free. Izuku sat up on his bed, one hand clutching his mouth and the other grabbing the sheet, and his blanket slowly drenched by so many drops of tear and sweat.

There was no dirt on his lips any more, nor was his throwing arm in pain, but his head was splitting and filled with so much horror and pain and _guilt_ he couldn't breathe so well.

_The trolls killed the rangers._

Someone had died because of him.

_The trolls killed the rangers._

Someone had died because he was too weak to save them.

_The trolls. Killed. The rangers._

Someone had _died_ and they weren't Izuku and that was so absurd and wrong and-

_The trolls. Killed. The rangers. Because they were protecting you. You. Midoriya Izuku._

And suddenly the room seemed so stuffy to him; like a casket. _Air._

Off jumped Izuku from the bed. He leaned against his chair, then dragged himself to the table, then the shelf and the door handle after it. He flung the door open with a creak.

In a pinch, it was a child's wont to look for their parents. Izuku was still very much a child in many ways; his first instinct was to scream and wail and shout and call his mother, and cry into her lap until sleep would come once more and purge his trauma, or at least delay it to another day.

Yet in others he was quite the adult. For instance, he saw his mother's work-clothes hung askew on the coat-hanger. He saw her night-shift bag dropped on the salon. He saw the clock on the wall, whose short hand was hovering just above the number three.

So he relented, dry-retched, and took in a glass of cold water.

In hindsight it was _bad_ idea. The water down his throat tasted like blood, dirt and sick, and smelled like trolls and whatever unmentionable else. The dry retch became the real thing, and whatever Bilbo had had for the last dinner was soon emptied into the toilet.

 _Air_ , his body screamed again. _Fresh air._

He stumbled out of the restroom, staggered towards the apartment's door. The twist of the door-knob and clicks of the key and the lock passed through his ears like white noise.

The spring night could get quite cold in Tokyo, as he found out a second later. For once he welcomed the biting chill; he wrapped his arms around himself, and began walking down the block's rundown stair and into the empty streets below.

Izuku did not know for how long or to where he was walking, but when finally got his bearings right, the smell of salt and the sea was already on top of him. He was mere blocks away from the beach. He rubbed his face, shrugged one shoulder, and did the only thing that looked halfway attractive to him. He tucked his hands in his pocket, and walked down the beach.

He must have walked about for a while in a circle, and there was nothing on the sand but for his many shoeprints. The waves washing over sand had a way of clearing the mind, as did

“Oh, hey, Midoriya, isn't it?”

The familiar voice startled Izuku, but only until he registered who it belonged to. “A-All Might?”

It was All Might, sure, but in his skeletal form, bent and weary. Yet his eyes were bright and he looked perfectly at ease, like he was at home rather than on a lonesome beach. He walked towards Izuku, taking breaths as deep as his damaged lungs allowed him.

“Well, I am here,” said him. “Thought a good boy should be in bed this hour, shouldn't he?”

“I'm sorry, sir,” said Izuku. “I... I couldn't sleep, so-”

Izuku expected to be admonished in some way. What he got was a throaty laugh followed by a throatier cough. “You and me both,” said All Might. “Insomnia comes with the work, doesn't it?”

“Why are you here?” asked Izuku, and only after he'd spoken did he cover his mouth. That _was_ a rude question all right!

“Why would I not be? This clean beach is our work,” said All Might. “No, _your_ work, young Midoriya, and it makes for pretty good strolls. I thought I'd walk around in the night when nobody's looking. Tell myself 'All's right with the world' and all that.”

“I see,” said Izuku.

“Well, don't just stand there. You're here to walk, aren't you, young Midoriya?” said All Might, gesturing towards the distance. “I suppose I'm not persuading you to get back to bed, and you've printed your feet 'round these part enough to make it an abstract painting!”

He wasn't wrong – Izuku might have paced a hundred laps around a patch of sand barely the size of his own room.

So he trailed behind All Might, and let his feet do the talking.

***

Bilbo found the last ranger in a glade not far from their campsite.

He did not personally know the man, but he was a ranger and that alone summoned a very specific image to any hobbit: grey-cloaked and dusty, scruffy and shadowy, whose agenda was unknown and whose purposes suspicious. 

But Bilbo recalled the cart-pusher bearing carrots and cabbages and sausages and ham and many sacks of wheat to his neck of the Shire that hungry spring. And a proper hobbit should by all means keep a good turn in mind at all time, if not seek to repay it. So he approached the ranger – Halbarad was his name, as Bilbo had been told.

The ranger turned around before Bilbo was within an arm's length.

“Master hobbit,” he said. 

Bilbo nodded. “Master ranger,” he said.

Oin was right. The man had been digging graves for his comrades, a task most grim and mournful. Now he was done, and behind him lay three graves, each marked with a mound and a tiny cairn. 

“I'm sorry,” said Bilbo, by which he meant  _I'm sorry for your loss_ . Had Izuku been there, Bilbo supposed, he'd have said the same, but would have meant  _I'm sorry I did not prevent their deaths_ .

The ranger seemed to assume he meant the latter.

“You have already done more than we would have expected of any gentle-hobbit, my dear sir,” said Halbarad. “This is the life we have chosen; the burden we have to bear.”

“What were their names?” asked Bilbo. “If- well, if it isn't too presumptuous of me to ask.”

Halbarad just raised a brow.

“I... well, because to us hobbits names and genealogies are important!” Bilbo said. “Your name and your story lives on in books, records and the words of those who recall.” He rubbed his forehead. “I thought for all your comrades had done for our company, the least we can do is remember their names and know their deeds go not forgotten.”

The ranger turned back at the graves, and for a moment Bilbo thought indeed he _had_ been presumptive and offensive to the man and his comrades who had saved them.

Then Halbarad exhaled, and looked towards the first grave to the right.

“That's Belegion,” he said. “Thirty-three, turning thirty-four the week after next. He was courting a fine woman of our kind; said he dreamt of having children brave as the knights of Annuminas ere Arnor fell, and beautiful as the stars beloved by the elves.”

“Miriel, named after a queen of Numenor, from a time our people were mighty still.” There was a ghost of a smile on his lips, but then it vanished; and he shook his head. “Proud and gentle Miriel – loved the pine forests and the rolling hills East of Eriador and animals large or small, and as fond of the grape-wine of Dorwinion as much as any Silvan elves.”

His eyes stopped over the last cairn. “And Baranor,” he said. “Most loyal among our late Chieftain Arathorn's finest. For seven years now he had desired little more than death – bringing with him as many of Morgoth Bauglir's spawns as he could.” The ranger turned around, and looked to the rising sun. “This was the end he wanted. He deserved better.”

And then he stood up, lowered his hood and bowed to the grave. He began to sing, and this was a verse of the song that Bilbo could make out:

_“A Elbereth Gilthoniel_

_o menel palan-diriel,_

_le nallon si di'nguruthos_

_A tiro nin, Fanuilos!”_

Bilbo too kept his head down, one hand placed where his heart was. 

This was how heroes died: alone and without much fanfare or funerary rites, buried in a shallow grave far from hearth and home.

Then Bilbo saw the ranger stand up straight one more, and dusted his cloak. “To where shall you now, good Ranger?” he asked.

“To Rivendell I must go,” said Halbarad, “and make their sacrifices known to my kinsmen.”

“Rivendell,” said Bilbo. “You mean Imladris, the Last Homely House East of the Sea?”

“That is indeed its name in the tongue of the Eldar,” said Halbarad. “It is not quite a place hobbits frequent nowadays.”

“No, but my late mother had been there much more frequently than most,” said Bilbo. “Belladonna Baggins was her name – Belladonna Took, before she married my father. She used to tell so many stories about the place where the elves dwell, among songs and books and a thousand tales to tell.”

“Then your was a most remarkable mother to a most remarkable son, master hobbit,” said Halbarad. “Should you seek to cross the Misty Mountains, I advise you stop by Lord Elrond's abode. He will assist you in ways we cannot.”

Then Halbarad faced Bilbo, and he raised his open palm. “The Valar guide you, my good hobbit,” he said, and turned around. 

“And to you, noble Dunadan,” said Bilbo. 

The dusty ranger only nodded; then he left, his grey cloak huddled around him and billowed no more. “ _A Elbereth Gilthoniel,_ ” he sang, and Bilbo thought his voice had become so quiet and melancholic, like his mother had said elves were wont to sing.

***

“Does something trouble you?”

For how long they'd been walking without a word Izuku did not recall. All Might's voice, deep as it was, sounded all the more startling to him. “Aaah!” he cried. Almost at once he calmed down, and scratched his messy scalp sheepishly. “I... uh... I...”

“I know it.” All Might lowered his voice. “Part of a hero's work is knowing when someone needs help,” he said. “And you, young Midoriya, don't look so much as needing help as crying for it.”

“Do I?” said Izuku.

All Might looked him in the eye, and suddenly Izuku found himself scrutinized – thankfully, only very briefly. “Why, you're white as a sheet, young Midoriya! And looked like you've been crying,” All Might said. “Whatever the trouble, young man, you can tell me. Wouldn't do the Symbol of Peace's reputation much good if he couldn't help his own successor, would it?”

All Might thumbed to the nearby bench, and Izuku followed him as if mesmerized.

That part of his brain still functional raced to reach a decision: should he tell All Might what had happened? About his failing? About how much fear and horror and _self-hatred_ he'd woken up in? About how he'd hurled twice in one night and his head was still spinning and no amount of fresh air could make it feel better yet? More importantly, if he was to tell him – because he _really needed to tell someone, darn it –_ how should he phrase it so the whole business wouldn't make his teacher, predecessor _and_ idol think he was being silly?

And so Izuku had been sitting on that bench for a few moments when he settled with a version – not exactly truth, but not exactly a lie either.

“I had a dream,” said Izuku.

“Oh?”

“I had a dream last night, All Might,” he said. “I was in this... place, fire and blood and smoke everywhere. Three villains were on the loose, and there were no pro heroes around. I was there, All Might, and One For All didn't work. I was just standing... there, throwing rocks at them... the villains I mean, and-and they laughed it off and they were k-killing people and-”

Izuku's voice broke into a wail. “They murdered them, A-all Might! They killed all these innocents and I... and I was just... I couldn't-”

In a brief moment Izuku wasn't completely overwhelmed by the cascade in his mind drowning out everything else, he almost regretted saying anything at all. If his ordeal was to be phrased that way, it was so easy for All Might to laugh at it – well, not literally, but some version of “it's just a dream” or another. And how helpful was _that_ anyway?

But All Might said nothing. At first.

He clasped his hands, and for however many seconds – minutes, even, he was sitting like a statue. At long last Izuku's curiosity drowned out the noises in his ears and stench in his nose and guilt ringing in his head. He looked up at his idol, and intelligible words returned to the tip of his tongue.

“A-All Might? Sir?” he asked.

“Young Midoriya,” he said “Have I ever told you about my debut?”

Izuku couldn't speak so well with his nose so congested and his throat so dry, so “I-I saw the old v-video,” was all he could say.

And what an understatement it was! Izuku's childhood was all about watching and rewatching that one upload so many times he might have been personally responsible for about half of its multi-million views. The one video that inspired him to try to become a hero: All Might rescuing dozens of victim from a burning building, at everyone's awe and admiration.

“Thought you did,” said All Might with a chuckle. Then the chuckle faded and his smile with it, and his eyes fell on distant things beyond the shore. “What that video didn't show is... I did not manage to save everyone in that apartment block.”

Izuku swallowed hard. “Really? But the video-”

“Five choked to death before I could break through their door. Two were crushed under the rubble in front of my eyes. They told me later out of all those I dragged out, four didn't make it through the night.” He looked up at the moon, and back at Izuku. “I saved ninety eight lives that day; the press considered it an enormous success because they hadn't expect more than a handful survivors. Except thirty years later I remember none of those faces I saved. It's always the wide-open lifeless eyes, the bodies mangled and twisted, the severed limbs, the smell of burning cloth and flesh and the blood splatters that haunt.”

Izuku had nothing else to really add, but to look at him with his eyes wide open and his lips so slightly parted in amazement. All Might looked at back him, and then gazed long into the sea once more.

“I like to say, ' _It's all right, because I am here',_ but most of the time not all things went right. Even at my best I was not as almighty as society – or I – like to think I am.” he said. “No matter how good your heart or how amazing your skill, there is always that little girl, that elderly citizen, that poodle... that you always seem to arrive a minute too late to save. On a bad day there'd be more than one, and pro heroes have more bad days than they have good ones.”

He put a hand on Izuku's shoulder. “Those who didn't make it during that very first job of mine... would you believe I drop flowers by their graves every year?”

Izuku nodded without a second thought. It was hard to imagine All Might placing a bouquet at a grave in his invincible hero form and fancy costume, yes, but the All Might sitting next to him now, eyes sunken and body in shambles, like regret personified? So, so sure.

“How did you... live with it?” Izuku asked. He wasn't sure if he was asking a rhetorical question, or meant it unironically. He was staring at the sand under his feet.

“I try to forgive myself.”

Izuku's head snapped straight up. “All Might? Sir?”

“It is what I said. I try to forgive myself. Find ways to convince myself I'd be better off apologizing through greater deeds. Convince myself for every one I failed to save today, I'll save three more the next.” he said. “It's not... sound reasoning, because human lives aren't simply a question of mathematical equation and... honest, I feel _dirty_ admitting this, but it helps. If I'd let myself ponder too long on regret, I would have been crushed years ago. It is a mark of heroism to forgive yourself – and fuel yourself to do greater things come the next sunrise.”

“But...”

“I don't mean to say forgive yourself too easily, because what would that say about your conviction?” He chuckled, only to immediately cough. “But judge yourself too harshly and you'll snap, and what good would that do anyone?”

Izuku wasn't sure how helpful the advice seemed at first; because forgiving himself was harder than forgive others. He could easily call Kacchan _Kacchan_ and set aside all the hurtful words and scars he'd inflicted upon him for years, with a smile even. But himself? When someone had _died_ because of something he had not done? He couldn't do it quite so well, at any rate compared to forgiving others.

But in the end he managed one of those small smiles of his. “I... understand.”

“Anyway, it's just a dream, young Midoriya.”

Izuku's smile shrank. _Ah,_ here _it comes_.

All Might blinked. “But an optimistic dream,” he said.

Izuku gasped. “Optimistic?”

“Any hero who isn't at least once troubled by the fear of not being able to save everyone is either extremely conceited, or dangerously ignorant,” said All Might. “Might be terribly mean of me, but I would much rather those people look into careers other than being a hero. That you dreamt of something so traumatic, well, that means you very much have that fear within you.”

The reasoning might not have really helped Izuku – because it was not a dream and the dead rangers were still very dead. But it put a balm on the gaping wound in his psyche: Izuku hid his smile behind his palm. “You might be right, sir,” he said, and spoke no more.

The silence lasted until All Might snapped his finger.

“Oh, speaking of which...” he said. “This might as well be a good time we have to talk about your... performance during the exam.”

Every muscle on Izuku's face became animate all of a sudden. “My performance?” he gasped. “The results are out?”

“What, you mean you didn't get the result?”

Izuku's eyes widened like a balloon overpumped. Horror filled him: he hadn't checked Bilbo's notes for the day! What had happened while he wasn't around? Had he faile? Had he passed? Oh no, what if he'd failed terribly and All Might was disappointed in him? Or what if he'd passed and All Might had taken his _not_ getting the results as disrespect? Or- or- or...

Before Izuku knew what he was doing his mouth started running so fast he didn't even recall what he was mumbling about. He might have gone on for thirty full seconds, maybe more, until All Might's bony hand fell on his shoulder with a _thud_.

“Young Midoriya, _brake_.”

“I, uh...” Izuku said with a mumble. “I wasn't at home.” Technically he wasn't lying either.

“Well, that's a bit careless of you, young Midoriya,” he harrumphed. “I've taken all that time thinking up a real nice speech to pump you up, too.”

Fortunately for Izuku's psyche, All Might's skeletal face was a lot less emotive than his heroic face. Because he sounded quite a bit hurt. Well, mock-hurt anyway.

“Hey now, don't feel too bad about it. If you weren't in, you weren't in,” said All Might. He threw his arms in the air. “Ah well, maybe that's for the better. I could give you a speech in person rather than through holograms.”

***

Gandalf found Bilbo in the glade in front of the three graves. Which was good in a way: Bilbo was just about to go find the wizard himself.

“It seems I've made it back too late,” said Gandalf. His brows were sagging, and his lips pressed.

“That you have, master wizard,” said Bilbo.

“You were hurt,” said Gandalf.

“Not as badly as could have been,” said Bilbo. 

_My arm could have exploded_ .  _And at any rate I'm not the one you should be worried about._

“I heard everything from the dwarves,” said Gandalf. “I am sorry to hear that-”

“Where were you?” asked Bilbo. He thought to stress his voice a bit more, but reckoned his curtness (and cutting off the wizard mid-sentence) was enough.

“Master Baggins, a wizard has business of his own to attend,” said Gandalf. “I am not a member of the Company, at any rate, merely its advisor. But-” He paused and looked at Bilbo, gauging his reaction most likely. “If I had known the trolls would have come after the Company, I would not have walked away as I did.”

At once Bilbo did not know what to say. His very battered body, the tears caked on his cheek and the taste of sick in his mouth as he roused could only mean Izuku had been  _very_ hurt, mind and body alike. He did not know how much of it could have been prevented by Gandalf being around, yet never before had he wanted to sue someone out of their last coin for negligence as he was fancying now.

He rubbed down his chest with his unhurt arm, and gauged the wizard's face back. The air of mystery around him had cracked and chipped, and now the wizard looked almost genuinely concerned.

“Master Baggins,” he said. “I am sorry for all of this.”

“At any rate,” said Bilbo. _I'm not the one you should apologize to._ His voice couldn't have been colder if he tried. “Pray that you do not lead us into worse trouble than we can shoulder.”

“Alas, my dear sir,” said Gandalf. “I wish I could say so in good faith, but I cannot. Adventures are wont to be unpredictable, particularly one with a live dragon at the end of it!”

Bilbo said nothing, but there was a huge disappointment welling within him that went unvoiced.

Gandalf looked him over. “You weren't angry because you were hurt,” he finally said, and at once Bilbo shuddered.

Could he have known about the issue between himself and Izuku? It was entirely possible: wizards were supposed to be clever, if not very wise, and the wise had a way of picking up signs in the most unlikely of places. It was equally possible, too, that he hadn't, and was only checking possibilities off his head.

But then Gandalf looked at him with those kindly eyes that reminded him of his grandfather. The hobbit drew a stiff breath.

“I wouldn't say I'm angry, Gandalf. Well, certainly, I'm not _completely_ fine with your not being around when you could have helped! Yet I'm more worried than I am angry,” he said. “You're the wizard. You're meant to be the solver of problems. I'm just... well, a hobbit; and I can be rather crafty should the need arise, but eventually it is _you_ who is the most capable in this troop. If you could not keep our adventure halfway in good shape, what hope would I have?”

“If this had been a matter between you and me,” said Gandalf, “I would have sent you home and beg for your forgiveness that an old man's obstinance had driven you to such troubles. Alas greater forces are at work here, about which I can only speak so much, that requires your presence.”

“'Greater forces are at work'?” Something clicked within Bilbo. “That could well be the case, Master Gandalf,” he said cautiously. “I should beg you only to consider this: my life is hardly my own to risk beyond the absolute necessary.”

Gandalf looked at Bilbo contemplatively. If there was something in his mind, some sort of enlightenment or revelation, he did not mention it.

But then he bent his knee and lowered himself to Bilbo's level, and suddenly he looked so bent and old and tired, so _diminished_.

“I give you my word to do whatever I can,” he said.

“Please see to it that you keep your word, Master Gandalf,” said Bilbo. “Now I'm afraid I'll need a bath, doesn't matter if cold or hot, and quickly if I can help it!”

***

Izuku had passed.

No, he'd passed rather spectacularly. Ranking sixth in the U.A. exam? And the school recognized the merit of what he did as fundamental heroism too? He could really pull both Ochako and Mei into an arena-trap-survivor group hug right about now! His heart was leaping and there was this huge beam on his teary face, and for just a moment he let the crushing guilt and terror just now take the backseat, and just _swam_ in the pure bliss of a dream come true.

But then there was the matter of the infraction, and _that_ gave him pause.

“So uh... quick question, sir? I was the only one who got infraction points?” he asked.

All Might nodded. “Courtesy of a certain teacher with whom I have no doubt you'll _enjoy_ butting heads,” he said. “Let's just say I'm not too big a fan of handing you, uh... punishment that way. But he has a point. A hero who gets himself hurt can't save others any more, can he?” All Might's blond antennae drooped. “Rich coming from me, isn't it?”

Izuku humored him with a giggle into his palm. But then realization hit him, and something deep within him deflated. “And... does anyone know this other than the teachers and me?”

“Well, uh... technically we published the top ten list and their score,” said All Might. “So if people paid attention to the scoreboard we handed out, they might catch on,” said All Might. “But then knowing kids your age, it's most likely they don't-”

_Oh. No._

Talk about standing out in a bad way – again. Were they going to pick on him again like his previous classmates? Except because he was the one kid who got infractions rather than the quirkless kid?

Sure, it was a passing fear and irrational at that – and pretty much like a slap on the wrist compared to facing a trio of troll. But it was _there_ to stay, because childhood anxieties were wont to lie there under the surface like a cave spider waiting for its prey for however long, and it would emerge alive and animate and _deadly_ if whatever happened to flit across its delicate web.

The sweat from Izuku quivering hands was pooling into a handprint-shaped patch on his pants where they rested. “It's because I... I couldn't control One For All,” he muttered. “It's my-”

The content of his thoughts spilled like a punctured water skin.

“Young Midoriya, _brake_. Breath. Swallow. Look at me.”

“It's not a _fault_ fault – I have a hard time convincing myself that breaking your arm to save others is anything but laudable and heroic!” said All Might, “though I doubt I can convince you that much now, can I?”

Izuku gave him a teary nod.

“But do take it as a pointer,” said All Might, “that this last year is only a beginning of your training.”

Izuku wiped his eyes. “I'm ready, sir,” he said.

It was both truthful and not: Izuku was ready for any kind of training, that much had never been in doubt. What he did not know was what to do.

All Might's hand fell on his slumped shoulder. “Think of One For All as boiling water. You're now something of a thin glass; pour just a bit in and you'd crack and shatter. But as you train you'd become a fine enameled tea cup or a silver goblet. Or even a kettle that gets to boil that water some more.”

Everything fell silent.

Then Izuku's eyes snapped open.

“If that's the case,” he cried, “I'll be the best kettle you can ever get!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes and fanon:
> 
> \- A Elbereth Gilthoniel is supposed to be an elven hymn. But since (i) the Dunedain are supposedly educated in and revere elven literature, and (ii) the hymn is very solemn and sorrowful in lyric and melody alike, I suppose it can be used as a farewell song. I briefly considered Galadriel's Namarie, but then (i) it was meant to be sung by the folks of Lorien, not Imladris, and (ii) its lyric was meant for the Eldar, so I decided against it.  
> \- Izuku was smelling Athelas/Kingsfoil when he fell asleep again.  
> \- The troll-walloping was brought to you courtesy of the humble sling. As any history enthusiast (or war-gamers) can tell you, a sling is a deceptively destructive weapon in trained hands, capable of flying faster than a race car and delivering a nasty hit. The Ancient Greeks documented cases of leaden sling bullets wrecking armor and causing often-fatal contusions and internal bleeding. That plus the fact that Bilbo in this timeline is very much a body-builder and so is Izuku, and suddenly we have at hand a makeshift weapon punching *way* above its weight class. I would draw a picture of Izuku dressed like a Rhodesian slinger if I could draw worth a darn at all!  
> \- The rangers' swords are supposed to be bastard/hand-and-a-half swords. Since the Dunedain are *really* tall (in the ballpark of seven to eight feet tall), such bastard swords *might* possibly be as long as five feet long from tip to pommel. Consult The Last Days of the Third Age for more info.  
> \- The name "Ecthelion" as battle-cry refers not to Steward Denethor's father, but the Noldo Ecthelion Lord of the House of the Fountain of Gondolin in the First Age. His name became a rallying cry to the Eldar following his valor at the battle for Gondolin, during which he slew many of Morgoth's host - including Gothmog the Lord of Balrogs. For those without Legendarium background, think of him as a Shimura Nana with a *much* more badass last stand.  
> \- Miriel is indeed the name of a Queen of Numenor: more precisely the very last one, Tar-Miriel, wife of the last King of Numenor Ar-Pharazon.


	9. Friendship Begins, Friendship Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Villain!Deku is born... or is he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains vivid depiction of bullying, panic attack and the aftermath of trauma.

**CHAPTER 8**

**FRIENDSHIP BEGINS, FRIENDSHIP ENDS**

 

Much as he had clamored for one, Bilbo did not get a bath for much of the day.

Instead, he was there yawning on his saddle, nursing the ache on his side, thigh and arm. His bruises was making good progress now, a fair bit faster than he thought they would. The way bruises went, they'd ache a lot at first, and worse if you'd tried to treat it, but after balms and _Oin_ tments and maybe a little heat the contusion would fade.

Now the Company had returned to the trail, and were passing that country where woodland and marshland met. There were wildflowers on one side, and the damp smell of water flora on the other. The sun was gentler now, and more readily obscured by clouds than before. In fact Bilbo recalled rains were like to come around more often this season, and started to regret not bringing any sort of umbrella whatsoever.

But the coming rain – if any – was nowhere near a source of worriment to Bilbo as two things that had both nothing and everything to do with him.

The one was the dwarves' inexplicable silence. For a day now the dwarves had not sung or joked, and spoke little but in whispers and their secretive tongue. So quiet it was, in fact, Bilbo's restlessness was growing unbearable. From what Oin related to him, Izuku had reacted _very badly_ to being buried in dwarves; and perhaps Bilbo should count himself lucky at all that they only thought he'd had a bad night rather than cluing in on the whole body-switch business.

And the second – Bilbo stole a glance at the stoic and majestic Thorin Oakenshield riding at the front – was the dwarves' conduct in the troll-scuffle. Or more accurately, how badly Izuku had taken it, and the position _that_ would leave them both in the days to come.

If Oin was telling the truth (and he had no reason not to), the dwarves were retreating from the fight and leaving the rangers to do most of the heavy lifting (at the cost of three ranger lives). Now Bilbo was not a warrior and a hero even less, but that attitude hardly seemed admirable even to him. More so, when it had resulted in losses that could arguably have been prevented had the dwarves lent more of a helping hand.

But on the other hand he couldn't have truly faulted Thorin for doing what he had done. Hobbits like Bilbo, as it happened, were good at heart and loved keen justice as much as every other free folks. But if they had to make a choice between risking their own kin's lives or that of some other unrelated people, most would choose the latter without much of a thought, or indeed any at all; because most people were not heroes but merely decent folks, as was the case with Thorin's company.

This reasoning certainly wouldn't fly with a boy who worshipped an ideal of selfless heroism like Izuku. Bilbo found taking sides in matters of morality as such to be distasteful, but Izuku... well, Izuku was in ways a fauntling who felt so strongly about most things, he would be swept away by his own emotions, like a current would a wayward log.

_He might even pick a fight with Thorin. It isn't as if he hasn't got on Thorin's bad side yet..._

At this thought Bilbo raised a brow. _What if I made Thorin my friend?_

As the sun fell the company set up camp near a river shallow, full of rocks at the bottom and foams above. The mountain range in the distance had become huger and dominated the horizon now, imposing and grim.

Bilbo couldn't have been happier to see running water for once. A dip and a gargle solved the matter of sweat and dirt and the taste of sick in the mouth, but didn't help the state of Bilbo's clothes any. His vest was missing half of its buttons, and all his handkerchiefs were gone; alas, this was not the last time Bilbo would have to lament Izuku's misuse of his personal assets. _So_ , he thought _, this was what parents feel like when your fauntling broke your property without leave_. His thought went not without a good chuckle or two.

But that would be a thing for later. Now his tasks were two in number: mending bridges with the dwarves if needed, and coaxing a statement out of Thorin if he could. Bilbo clenched his fist: he could fix this one at a time, he thought, and set to work immediately.

(It had to be said that his curiosity as to what the dwarves might have found at the troll-hoard was growing by this point, too. Gandalf was strapping to his side a brand new sword, whose hilt was bright with unblemished gems, though the scabbard was of ordinary leather, weathered and cracked at the edge. Bilbo could only guess Thorin was carrying away something of the same sort. But it was a matter of such minor importance until a later date.)

The mood in the camp wasn't improving overly much while the beef broth was bubbling in the pot. _Perfect time for a serial story-teller to strike_.

He did so, first and foremost, by bumping Kili over the shoulder. The dwarf was sitting in a clump with his brother and Ori, chatting in hushed tones about probably nothing in particular. All three turned to Bilbo, and their faces were now twisted with bemusement.

“Well, gentle-dwarrows, out with it,” he said. “It's a mighty fine evening to be glum and gloomy. The fire's warm, the food cooking and there's no rain to ruin an early summer camping yet!”

Kili and Fili and Ori glanced at one another. “Well we thought you would break down in cold sweats again Master Boggins,” said Kili, looking away from Bilbo.

“Was I?”

“Why, yes you were! You were clutching your ears and mumbling and looked like you were living a nightmare!” said Fili. “Uncle Balin said we’d better leave you be, cause you probably had something-” His voice trailed off, his fingers articulating wildly.

“Not pretty about your memory,” added Ori. “Said it was all right and we should understand because _he_ has these episodes once every so often when something reminds him of his bad old days.”

“And your last night was rough, like _way_ rough even for us dwarves!” Kili added. “Fought like a dragon in a pinch, truly! Well, the puking could have been done away with, and the crying-to-sleep part-”

Fili knocked his brother on the back of his head. “Not the time or place, Kee,” he said. “At any rate we were afraid you were in a bad way enough Oin was debating staying back for another day so you'd get better!”

Inside Bilbo's fear was like a roaring fire doused with oil and pitch. _By Eru, was it that bad?_

But he did not show much of it at all, except for maybe a token shudder. Instead he clasped his hand and nodded, as if he was merely hearing a wee bit of old wives' gossip and not how his adoptive boy had had the living nightmare of his lifetime to date.

“I see,” said Bilbo.

“What do you see?” said Kili tentatively.

“Why, the cause for the grievance, of course, and a good solution for that too if you're listening,” Bilbo said. “As I'm now perfectly normal and happy (probably more so with a bowl of hot soup which hopefully should be simmering as we speak), if you folks want a story or two, I can humour it-“

Fili and Kili's face lit up like torches in the night.

“HEY FOLKS, MASTER BOGGINS SAYS STORY TIME IS NOW-O’CLOCK!”

In a minute flat Bilbo found himself up to his neck in dwarves. The younger dwarves, anyway, plus Bombur who had more than a few questions about the dishes of raw fish wrapped in seaweed dipped in bitter root paste (“Sounds yucky,” said Ori, to which Bilbo only chuckled. Food in the land of Japan was very much an acquired taste).

There were Balin and Dwalin too, each speaking a few words to Bilbo about his troubles, to which Bilbo replied with a lot of “thank you my good sir,” and “I am fine now my good sir.” Awkwardness filled him listening to advice not meant for himself, yet he swallowed it all. Izuku would need these two dwarves' goodwill later, and maybe a lot more than just goodwill.

And so they chatted and laughed and oh'd and ah'd until the sky was black save for the moonshine, when the broth was finally done and ladled into their tin plates large and deep.

But all was still not well.

Thorin looked nonplussed throughout the episode – though Bilbo hoped it wasn't because of him, for he wasn't even looking his way. Throughout the dinner Thorin was sitting in front of the campfire, staring at the flame rather than his very nicely cooked stew. Once every so often he glared past the fire and at the wizard opposite to him.

Gandalf, for his turn, seemed to enjoy his stew and dried bread ration quite overly much this particular evening, and didn't seem like he paid the dwarf any mind. Not, at least, until the dwarf spoke up himself.

“If I have any say in this,” he grumbled at the wizard, “we would not come within twenty miles of the elves' strong place. If we do, they shall keep us and we shall never leave their imprisonment!”

Gandalf set his tin plate down on the ground. It was empty anyway. “Why would they stop you from your quest?” he asked. “If they wouldn't care for you or your people, like the story you have told one hundred years ago, they would be all too glad to let you go – to your doom as that is where this quest should end to the eyes of the unhopeful and unsympathetic.”

“My grandfather's treasures is vast, and many would seek to claim it themselves,” said Thorin. “Especially elves – a greedy lot they are, and would cheat you out of your just payment if they can get away with it!”

The campfire flickered in Gandalf's eyes. “But can you claim the treasure yourself?” he said. “After all you've yet to uncover all the secrets of that map of yours, and in Rivendell lives one of the few – perhaps the only that we can reach in good time – who can help you unveil that mystery.”

Thorin scoffed. “And why would my grandfather have written his instructions, meant by a dwarf for dwarves, in any sort of script only an elf can read?”

“Because there has been a time when there was friendship between dwarves and elves, and that you remember them with small kindness does not make the enmity any truer than it actually is,” said Gandalf. “Besides, the road is not as safe as it was this time last year – armored trolls are attacking travelers on the road (by which I mean our merry company), and who knows whichever danger might lie between here and Misty Mountains alone.”

“And it would be perfectly fine if you wish not to meet with the Noldor,” He stressed the word 'Noldor' like it would make a difference. “Give me the map, and I shall see to it that it is examined by the one who can help us.”

“This is heirloom of the line of Durin,” said Thorin, stressing the word 'Durin' like it would make a difference. “And I shall not part with it, not for a moment until the dragon lies dead and Erebor is reclaimed!”

“Spare me the obstinance of dwarves!” cried Gandalf. “Do you wish to succeed in this quest, or do you not?”

For a time Thorin's face hardened, like unto the stone from which his folks had been carved. His Then he scrunched his nose, rubbed his chin over his (quite diminished) beard, like he had smelt things altogether too distasteful to mention in polite company.

“Very well. Very well indeed, Gandalf,” he said. “We shall come to Rivendell, and we shall see what your elves has to say. And then we shall leave as early as we can – manner notwithstanding.”

“They are not _my_ elves, Thorin Oakenshield,” said Gandalf, though a corner of his lips was raising in a manner best described as humourous.

The discussion came to a close in such manner, with Thorin Oakenshield retiring to his corner of the campsite mumbling in the language of the dwarves, Gandalf to _his_ corner of the campsite, and the younger dwarves moving their bedrolls closer to their storyteller.

Kili and Fili started snoring almost at once. Bilbo did not.

He had something to discuss with Thorin. Something that should ideally begin benign and end harsh – or perchance not, depending on how the dwarf-prince would answer. After all, the good power of words wisely spoken should never be underestimated.

***

“Deku, you worthless shitstain! Take me for a fool, do you?”

Izuku's ears rang like a bell. The bathroom wall above his head had just shattered to pieces. His nose caught the smell of scorched ceramics as dust covered his face.

He was standing opposite to the mirror, but he could not see himself, because Kacchan was placing himself between it and him, his face mere inches away. Kacchan was baring his teeth, his eyes upturned, his breath harsh, and low growls could be heard from the base of his throat.

His heart beat like a drum. His breaths were stifled, his tongue bitter, his lips parched. “Kacchan, I... I don't know what I-”

“Shut the fuck up!”

Kacchan grabbed Izuku's collar and yanked him up. “You fucking tricked me!” he growled. “Well, think it makes you look good, huh? Not enough to ruin _my_ origin story, you asswipe? Have to go oh, how _awesome_ you look toting around a quirk before your better, huh? Huh? Huh?”

His explosive punches rained on the wall above Izuku's head. Flakes of cement and enamel filled the air; Izuku's eyes stung from all the dust, and his nose caught the smell of singed hair, too. Kacchan hadn't yet punched _him_ directly, but just a slip, just a slip, and it probably wouldn't be _just_ sand and gravel on the ground.

Never in fifteen years had Izuku seen Kacchan so angry. Not when he'd offered a hand to help him unbidden. Not when he'd found Izuku's dream for U.A. Not when he was smashing robots in the test.

Part of Izuku thought he was going to die.

When a fifteen-year-old boy, full of dreams and aspiration and passion, thought he was going to die, well, that was like flipping an invisible button.

 _It's not so bad_ , he thought, and he recalled the rangers so brutally killed in the wood. He recalled the trolls, stinking and huge and lumpy, and a club falling and falling and falling with a _crunch_ on a ranger's head. Suddenly Kacchan’s scowl, growls and bared teeth seemed so... harmless.

Izuku's body assumed the posture of a corpse: hands fell to his side, head pressed back against the wall, legs drooped limp. But he was staring back at Kacchan now, and for once he was free from fear.

“Hey, Deku! I. Am. Talking. To. You!”

_It's not so bad, right?_

“Yes you are.” Izuku's lips started moving, one muscle after another. “I was just thinking, it must be easy isn’t it?”

Kacchan's eyes rolled. “Louder, I can't hear you, _Deku_. louder!”

“Must be so easy hitting someone who can’t _kill_ you. Isn’t it?”

Izuku had spoken under his breath, almost too quiet to hear.

Deep within him it was like some previously unseen gear, rusty and unoiled, was starting to creak into life again, turning and clanking and grinding. Now his tongue was moving as if on instinct, like taking one step after another out of the door, until he'd been swept to parts unknown.

“What's this? Little Deku getting some mettle? Don't make me laugh, you lying shithead!”

His eyes were dry, and his face stony. The hands grabbing his throat were nothing compared to the _smack_ and the _crunch_ and the _whack_ he'd seen. Then his lips curled: Izuku was smiling, the kind of empty smile that contained no joy and all defiance.

“You said I've been hiding a quirk from you, right, Kacchan?” he said. “That I'm a liar, right? Well, assume I am, Kacchan. Assume I've been hiding my quirk all my life just because I wanted to mess with you. Where would that leave you?”

Kacchan's eyelids jittered. “The hell you pathetic shitrag trying to mumble?”

After courage came anger. After anger, bloodlust.

_Oh no. Oh no. Oh no. What am I saying? What am I doing?_

The voice went unheard. Under great duress, cruel thoughts, as a rule, had a way of stifling kinder and more reasonable thoughts, like weeds crowding out crops. Dark thoughts filled Izuku's head, not the kind of self-destructive berserker's rage, but the detached clinical evaluation of a professional mind, ruthless and sadistic.

“It's so simple, Kacchan. Laughably simple,” Izuku said. “You don't even know what my quirk is... what it does, how strong it is, how _terrifying_ it can be. You've put yourself in an empty room with someone who has every reason to hate you, who may or may not want to _kill_ you – strongly leaning towards _may_ , mind you – and who has a quirk you don't even know it existed. No help, no backup, no witnesses.” Izuku's chuckle was throaty and loud, loud, _loud_. “Pro heroes have died for less, Kacchan.”

He clenched his fist. It did not flash red and green, because the greater part of him was screaming _NO, DON'T YOU DARE DO THAT._ Yet a not-small part of was playing with that thought, and it felt so _good_. Better, when he looked at Kacchan, at his widening eyes, at his blanching face, at the quivering corner of his mouth.

His perennial tormentor got the message at long last.

“You... you wouldn't dare, you worthless waste of air!”

“And why would I not?” he said. “You know what the problem with our hero society is, Kacchan? That all it takes for disaster to happen is someone with a powerful quirk to _snap._ ”

It was all Izuku could do not to laugh hysterically like a clown villain in an old comic book. He wouldn't walk the walk, but talking the talk alone felt _good_.

“Y-You've gone batshit insane, you v-v-villain!” cried Kacchan, and his hand slipped from Izuku's neck. There it was: the rage had burned away in his voice. What remained was fear under a thin disguise of bravado, because his Kacchan was a smart boy, and smart boys knew when he was being bluffed and when he wasn't.

The best (or worst) part, even Izuku did not know if he was bluffing.

“Batshit insane? Villain?” he said. “I like the sound of that.”

His chuckle vanished, and all Izuku felt for that one moment was that empowerment long desired. Yet that part of him still pure and altruistic was screaming at him still. _No, you idiot_ , it screamed, _it's not power, but poison!_ Poison, indeed, coursing through his vein, of the sentient sort, that whispered to him from within that _he had killed living things_ and could very well do it again and it would feel _good_.

To say that pure and kind part Izuku was frightened of himself was like saying Arda had had a long history. That part, muffled and hysteric just beneath the surface, was begging him to bend down, collapse on his knee and say ' _sorry, Kacchan, I didn't mean it'_ like he had done so many times since his childhood.

But he was pushing his tormentor back, just once, just this once. The kind soul within him was always around, and this once it was just not strong enough.

In that blink of an eye he wasn't at all like the heroes Beren or Earendil or Gil-Galad or so many elf-lords of the ages long past he'd read about. No, he was a green-haired, tiny and sisterless _Turin Turambar,_ without a talking sword that slew men and elves and orcs and dragons alike with reckless abandon, sure, but a Turin Turambar none the less.

His voice was an hair's breadth from cracking. Miraculously it didn't. “I told you. Do you want to try, Kacchan? It's not the first time I've had someone try to kill me. It's going to be self-defense. We can go down that path, I'm cool if you are.”

Izuku took one step forward. Kacchan took one step back. Tiny explosions went off like crackers, rattling about Izuku's ears, but no big explosions formed. Many beads of sweat were forming all over Kacchan's face: on his forehead, on his cheeks, above his lip, pooling into streams down his neck.

One step forward. One step back. Like a dance. One step forward. One step back.

Now he'd pushed Kacchan far enough away that he could bolt for the door, and in fact if his head hadn't been so swelled with blood and death and silent anger he would have done exactly that.

“R-r-remember this, you crazy piece of shit! I'll- I'll be the best hero there is... and I'll throw your villain ass in jail!”

His voice was trembling. Of course he was. Izuku was meant to be useless. Izuku was meant to be a punching bag that never fought back. Izuku was meant to exist only to make Kacchan feel more awesome about himself, like a wooden doll weak and silly and useless. Izuku wasn't meant to be scary in an I-will-kill-you kind of way.

Everyone in their school would know, come the next day, that for the first time in forever Bakugou Katsuki left Midoriya Izuku well enough alone.

Only Izuku himself knew he'd spent the next two hours locking himself inside a restroom cubicle. He did not cry, nor did he move from that position curled into a ball on the toilet seat, but inside he was as dead as the rangers who had lain down in that unknown neck in the wood. After his hatred for his tormentor had burned away – as quickly as a flame too bright – came his hatred for himself.

_Wh-what have I done? How did... how did I become so villainous?_

Having seen people being killed and having killed were both things a fifteen-year-old boy should never have to witness in isolation, much less together. Having threatened an old friend, a bully as he might be, with _death_? After all that talk by his hero about how he was to be this embodiment of justice after he would retire because something inside him just _snapped_?

_I am a villain. I am a villain. I am a villain._

The chorus of ' _I am a villain_ ' had long become a cacophony, grinding and shredding at his deepest parts. No, to be more precise, Izuku felt like a villain _and_ a traitor: After all the trust All Might had vested in him, how could he have flaunted such a _sacred_ power as he did?

_I should have died. Shouldn't I? Shouldn't I?_

Kacchan could have told Izuku to go kill himself a thousand times, and he'd only be a thousandth as close to actually getting Izuku to jump off a cliff. In fact, it was self-preservation alone that had kept him sitting where he was. Had he just moved an inch, he would have looked to the nearest window and found it surprisingly attractive.

Izuku would have stayed there until the sun had set and the school janitor came up and knocked at each door – if someone else had not done the knocking part first.

“Midoriya? A-are you in there?”

Izuku's head wobbled, and so did his voice.

“W-who goes there? Who... goes there?”

“It's, uh, me. Hijikata. We don't... uh, we don't talk that often, I know, uh, without us hitting or sneering at you anyway... And... and you saved my life.”

The voice outside hesitated for a century-long second. The voices inside Izuku quietened down for a second-long blink of an eye. _Hijikata? Hijikata Nendan, that Bilbo saved?_

“You, uh, saved my life twice, you know, and you could have left me to... to be _gone_ but you went ahead and saved me anyway-”

Inside the cubicle Izuku was shaking his head and gritting his teeth so his sobs wouldn't break out. _No, it wasn't me_ . _It was Bilbo._

“I thought... I thought I should... thank you. Thank you and, uh, say sorry-” he said. “I, uh... I know this is not enough,” he said. “But... I'm sorry for everything I've done to you. I... I want to make excuses, I really do, but-”

Bile was rising within Izuku; because again he was taking credit for what Bilbo had done and heroes wouldn't take credit for other people's deed now would they? He didn't need to be more of a villain that he already was, did he? _No, I'm no hero. I'm no hero at all!_

“But I can't, because there's none. I thought... thought having a quirk good enough was all there is,” he said. “I... It's fine if you wouldn't accept it-"

And then something flicked in Izuku's mind – words in Bilbo's voice. _I'm proud of you, Izuku, my dear lad!_ It seemed to say, like many such words in their correspondence. A gasp escaped Izuku's lips, and his eyes flicked open.

“Wait!”

Izuku unlocked the door and stepped out of the cubicle. He drew a stiff breath, and looked at the boy in front of him: the gangly, chubby and normally sneering boy of every other day was now standing bent and shaking. There were scars on his face now, and his eyes had large black bags underneath it, like he had had no sleep at all for the last year.

Perhaps he really hadn't. He never went to class any more those days – after three months of hospitalization and trauma counseling they decided to hold him back a year.

“Midoriya-”

_To be a hero means to be willing to forgive and start anew._

Izuku wiped his tears away. His own thoughts echoed against him, and he smiled.

“It's fine,” he said. “Look, Hijikata, I might have _not liked_ you once. I might even have hated you.” He wiped the tears rolling down his cheeks. “But... but think it this way: would I have s-saved someone I don't forgive?”

It wasn't his best argument or his best story-telling, but Izuku wasn't so unhappy about it. Because he was being true to himself and that made him hurt less. Sometimes in a pinch all that was needed was something _good for the moment_.

“S-so thank you, Hijikata,” Izuku said. “Haven't had people apologize to me for a while.” He smiled, like All Might would, and the shadow over his mind dissipated.

“I... see,” said Hijikata. He raised a chubby hand. “Well, I'll... I guess I'll roll off now. You do well in U.A. now, will you?”

“Yeah,” said Izuku. And then he raised his hand too and opened his mouth without much of a thought at all. “Hey, Hijikata,” he said. “Let's hang out again some time – when we're less busy, that is.”

“Sure!” said the other boy.

_Forgive yourself, forgive your mistakes, and do it better the next day. Right? Right?_

It was the first time Izuku would shake hands with a former tormentor. Outside, the orange-gold light of the setting sun was piercing through the bathroom window, gilding their stretch of the corridor.

It was almost poetic; like the harbinger to the end of an era.

***

It was well past midnight when Thorin Oakenshield, leader of the Thorin Company and uncrowned King of dethroned Erebor, left the campfire for the company of his new sword pilfered from the troll hoard. He sat down on a log near the train of ponies, clasping the scabbard and resting the hilt against his shoulder. The air was damper than it was before, and no longer clear or crisp. The running water might have made for sound slumber some other days, but not today.

Thorin drew the new sword once more, and nodded to himself in appreciation. It was an exceedingly nice sword, quite elvish though it was. Elf-letters ran along the half of its fuller, its hilt set with many gleaming jewels, and its guard was decorated in the likeness of a golden flower. Thorin was mesmerized right away: it might or might not be an elf-sword, but beauty was beauty and dwarves were as a rule fond of beautiful things finely wrought from metal.

Then his mind wandered to Rivendell as Gandalf had spoken of it (a whole lot back in supper; quite fondly if he had ever seen the wizard that way). His ostensible admission of defeat just then was more like an admission of having nothing worthwhile to complain about – yet; because Rivendell seemed to promise everything the company was needing and then some: guidance, wisdom, supplies, rest, _assistance_.

Thorin scoffed at himself. _Pshaw. When have the elves ever provided help for anyone without a thought for recompensation?_

Then a crisp sound to his back reached him, and Thorin spun around. The burglar was walking towards him, hands at his side. His feet were surprisingly inelegant – as if he'd been wanting to be caught. “Master Thorin,” he said, “I hope I'm not intruding.”

Thorin shrugged one broad shoulder. “You are not in your bed, Master burglar,” he said.

The burglar stretched (or perhaps made a show of stretching). “Well, a bad case of insomnia, is what it is. Happens to the best of us at the worst of times, I'm sure. May I join you, Master dwarf?”

Thorin narrowed his eyes, but moved aside anyway. “And here I was thinking you were interested in my new sword,” he said. “Or else keep awake by a bruise or another.”

“Goodness gracious, no to both, thank you!” Bilbo said, waving his hands. “At any rate if I should say anything about the matter, yours is a very good sword from the look of it, and Master Oin is indeed a very excellent physician.” He tapped on his own shoulder. “I can't imagine him abandoning a career in saving life for an adventure.”

Then he approached, and sat himself next to the dwarf-lord.

Now Thorin might have had harsher and less kind things to say about the hobbit, sure, but he had to admit the jolly fellow had a way with words, when he wanted to appease and keep people talking. _Well, the night is young still. Some story-telling is more than half as good as music._

So he set his new sword to his side and looked to the hobbit. “He is some of the best we have; that ours wouldn't be half as good a company without him, to say nothing of the fortune of gold and silver he put into it,” said Thorin. “I would suppose there's something of the dwarrow fire and loyalty of old in him, and some (or a lot) of that love for gold and silver too.”

“Indeed!” said Bilbo. “The goodly old dwarf's missed out on the trolls' treasure hoard for helping me with my sprains and bruises. Once the quest is done-” He paused in what seemed like reverent hesitation. “-I should like to recompensate him from my own share-”

Thorin merely eyed the hobbit. “You seem to have a rather odd fixation to doing good to people other than yourself, master burglar,” he said, “that I was wondering why you thought being a burglar would be a good idea.”

He left the bulk of his words unsaid, and hoped the hobbit got it. Turned out he did, because he was nodding and clasping his hands.

“Life has a way of sweeping you to strange places, Master Thorin,” he said. “And if you should worry about my going against your leadership, then rest assured, Master Thorin. The other day, well, what I said was a slip of the tongue and meant no disrespect. It wouldn't happen again.”

_That makes another skill under his belt, no?_

“Then make sure it is so,” Thorin said. “Durin's folk respect wealth and bravery much, but deference to leadership even more.” He wrapped his cloak closer around him. “At any rate, I suppose I owe you my thanks like the rest of the Company. You fought very well for someone with but a sling to your name.”

“Just something I picked up as a youth,” said Bilbo. “I had not half a mind for adventure back then, you see, but a fauntling's energy had to go somewhere.”

Then he fell silent. Thrice Thorin saw the corner of the burglar's lips shift and quiver, like he was going to raise one grave matter or another. Thrice such movement amounted to no words, and he fell back into silence and stillness. It was a thing both annoying (at first) and endearing (when Thorin had gotten more used to it).

Thorin would do one better: He would speak first.

“Tell me one of your stories.”

The burglar-storyteller blinked. “Excuse me, Master Thorin?”

“Tell me one of your better stories,” Thorin repeated. “I've told you ours, through songs no less, and I suppose your love for telling good tales is greater than ours still – why, you're giddy enough I thought you have something you wished to tell!” A harsh chuckle left his throat. “Besides, we shall be besieged by elves and their fancy excuse for singing less than half as early as I should like – your fantastic yarns of giant iron snakes carrying people in their bellies while treading along miles-long bars of steel almost sound more practical and palatable.”

There was a glint of mischief in the burglar's eyes. “Why, indeed,” he said. “Now, what is it you wish to hear?”

***

It was well past midnight when Aizawa Shouta, un-famous pro-hero and infamous teacher at U.A., put down the final touch on his latest plan. It was a plan concocted in Shouta's normal environ: A room lit only by computer and tablet screens, with a cat curling asleep underneath the table and another on top of it.

Yet it was enough of a change from the stuff Shouta did normally, that he was actually a littlegiddy. Of course he would never show such childish emotions; mostly because his energy was better spent elsewhere, like actually making the plan work.

 _“The P.E. Field is yours to do whatever you think fit; same goes for whichever other teacher that you can... ahem, rope into it.”_ Principal Nedzu had pulled him aside after that last staff meeting, and so whispered in his ears. _“As long as you promise me not to expel any student this time without first trying to help them.”_

Shouta chuckled at the memory. It was almost like the principal was trying to insult him. When had he _not_ tried to help students before expelling them?

The problem, as he saw it, was with the system rather than his way; and by 'system' he meant the entire state of humanity nowadays where a child of four could have at his fingertips powers equal to entire armies in less enlightened days. Power without the mental fiber and self-control to use it well invited conceit, insolence, complacence and a thousand vices more harmful to a hero's career than Shouta's own gaze in the thick of combat. The exam hadn't help matters much: give those impressionable teenagers a field full of robots to smash and tell them how great they are smashing said robots, and their collective head would swell to an almost clinical size.

He'd thought again and again about his approach to teaching, and not just because he was a teacher. Aizawa Shouta was a pro hero, you see, and part of the job was less to apprehend villains than to prevent villains from sprouting. The best way to do so was by teaching big-headed kids how to and how not to behave.

That was why he let that entire class of his go just last year: less because of their quirks and more because of their _attitude._ Because convincing them the exam was the beginning rather than the end proved fruitless. Because they had been talking about hero-names and costumes, and spent hours talking the talk about finishing moves without working the work. Because they'd spoken – not to his face – once too often that society needed them more than they needed society, and meant it.

If even one of them realized today how poorly they'd carried themselves, it would have been worth the decision.

But that was a year ago. This was a brand new class of twenty cobbled together through a slightly different test with an entirely different mentality behind it, and again Aizawa allowed himself to be _hopeful –_ though not entirely because of the students themselves.

 _“How great it is, All Might the sidekick-less hero starting to preach about the need for teamwork,”_ he'd told the Big Man himself during that same staff meeting. Either All Might did not understand sarcasm or he understood it perfectly and agreed with the sentiment; but he never dropped that annoyingly bright smile of his throughout the whole meeting.

Perhaps, if the stars aligned, Shouta could even count on All Might as an ally in the scheme he was going to pull. No, scratch that, All Might seemed _already_ an ally, more on board with the “ _teach them teamwork, hard work and humility_ ” idea than most other staff had ever been over the dozen or so years he'd been a teacher here.

Perhaps All Might's input was why they changed the format of the exam all along. Certainly not enough in Shouta's most humble opinion, mind, but it was a move in the right direction.

Just then Shouta's phone lit up – his colleagues were messaging. “ _Tormentors of Class 1-A For the Greater Good (TM)_ ” he had named their group chat. Let nobody say Eraserhead had not a sense of humor.

 _“Your plan has been acknowledged.”_ The message came from Ishikawa Ken. _“It seems a little too over-the-top for a first-day quirk assessment. But still far more bearable than the things you used to pull. I am in.”_

 _“Yikes, that sounds painful. And painful is good!”_ came Nemuri's reply. _“Ah well, let's squeeze the youthful spirit from these eggs, shall we?”_

 _“Awraaaight!”_ That was Hisashi. _“I'll do live commentaries for the sake of posterities!”_

Shouta's lips curled into a sort-of smile. _“Hold your collective horses,”_ he typed. _“I still have the reputation of being a monster of a teacher to uphold.”_

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes and fanon:
> 
> \- In defense of my characterization of Izuku: This, here, is the chapter where you can argue my version of Deku is doing something canon Deku would never do, ever. However, do keep in mind that this version of Deku (i) had just had a *very* bad day, starting with being thrust into an adventure unbidden, getting swamped by dwarves and suffering from something of a panic attack, meeting some very new people whom he started to idolize on the spot - the same people who got slaughtered to a man before his eyes and was more or less powerless to stop it; (ii) was still blaming himself for the death of said new idols, and talking to All Might didn't solve everything because he never told him the whole story; and (iii) was faced with a Katsuki who was MUCH angrier than he was in canon, because not only he saw Deku getting into U.A. anyway, he also saw Deku *actually using his quirk* which he previously though nonexistent. All of this means it's not implausible for him to bowl over and *snap*.  
> \- For the uninitiated, Turin Turambar is the good Professor's paramount tragic hero, whose story is recounted in the Tale of the Children of Hurin. Best described as one of the greatest Mannish warrior of his Age, Turin's stubbornness and wrath was his own undoing, causing directly and indirectly very great ruin upon his own allies. He ended up killing himself falling upon his black sword Gurthang. In this timeline Bilbo most certainly didn't know much of Turin's tale, otherwise he would not have told Izuku about it.  
> \- During the First Age, Gandalf (as the Maia Olorin) was *very* fond of elves, and hung out with them like a cool uncle of sort. Naturally the behavior continued till the Third Age and beyond.


	10. Rising Above and Beyond

**CHAPTER 9**

**RISING ABOVE AND BEYOND**

 

Izuku did not feel like talking to Kacchan on the first day at the new school.

In fact, he had hoped he wouldn't see Kacchan at all, for a few days at least, and the argumentative samurai-commissar fellow too if he could help it. The latter, because he frightened him plain and simple. The former, because now that he had calmed down Izuku could not shake the feeling that his friendship with his only real childhood friend had _ended_ , it was all his fault, and he was an _inch_ from falling out of the mindset of a hero to top it off.

Obviously the universe had other plans. Hardly had he stepped into the classroom when their two voices started booming at each other, drowning out all other sounds – and it was a classroom without a teacher, mind!

“Want to fight, you side-character shithead?” growled Kacchan. He was crossing his arm, and now his right feet stamped against the table's surface; he leaned on his knee, and there were sparks coming from his fingertips.

What was it all about, anyway? Kacchan was sitting the way he always did in the old school: both feet on the table. The other fellow was going on a small lecture on how it wasn't proper hero behavior, how it was disrespectful and not becoming of hero-candidates, how it was their responsibility to uphold society's standard of morals, et cetera... which, to be honest, Izuku found himself agreeing wholeheartedly.

No, no, no, there was no way Izuku could do anything at all. With great difficulty he drowned his many inner voice with a quiet mumble about random thing: how the sky was so blue, the hallway so long, the classroom door gigantic yet the classroom tiny, the tables and chairs so new and shiny... how _awesome_ U.A. was.

And then he looked around the classroom. His face brightened, the mumbling stopped: Ochako _was_ in his class.

“Hey, hey, Midoriya!” she exclaimed, waved her hand and patted on the empty space behind her; and at once Izuku knew where he would be sitting for the rest of the year.

He dropped his bag on the chair. “Hi,” he said, and surprised himself at how natural he sounded now. Talking to a girl, at the end of the day, wasn't half as hard as most things he had done between this time last year and now. Like a famous writer in the West once wrote: “ _There are some things you can't share_ _ _without__ _ending up liking each other_ ”, a one-hundred-meter tall robot was quite up there in the order of friend-making business.

Now he cocked his head back and glanced at the scene Kacchan was making. He was genuinely anxious, too, because deep down Izuku could not think of Kacchan as anything other than an old friend.

“Have they been at it for long?” he asked, his brow twitching. “This seems hardly... proper?”

“Eh, ha, ha,” went Ochako, mockingly looking at the ceiling. “Well, of course it isn't, but not that... unexpected, you know?”

She looked around the classroom, as did Izuku. His new classmates were clumped around in small groups doing their own share of chatting paying the two hotheads little heed. As if two students baring teeth at each other was a perfectly normal part of teenage life. Then again, perhaps it actually was, and it was only Izuku who never knew because of how secluded he was most of the time...

“Hey, just in case you forgot,” she said, “we're having lunch together today!”

Something went _ting_ in Izuku's head, and suddenly Kacchan about to literally explode didn't seem so pertinent any more. “Eh?”

“Hatsume said she's paying, remember?” Her cheeks puffed. “Don't tell me you've forgotten!”

Izuku blinked once, then twice, then thrice. And then his mind wandered to the notes Bilbo had left him – specifically, that part pertaining to “ _having tea with two young ladies_ ” he had not read (because that fallout with Kacchan had occupied most of his thoughts over the past few). _Oh no_ , was all he could remember thinking, and at once he began mumbling.

As per usual Izuku had scant idea _what_ his mouth was motoring off. Unlike usual, he found himself at the receiving end of a dozen eyeballs before he knew what hit him.

First among the multitude, of course, was that commissar-samurai who wore his seriousness like a medal of honor. “Oh! It's you, at the exam!” He broke off the argument and stuck his hand out before Izuku, half-robotic and half ceremonial-like. “Iida Tenya, formerly of Soumei, very honored to make your acquaintance!”

If Izuku was like a kettle his voice was like a wildfire making it boil over. He blinked and felt the muscles on his face thrumming. “W-who, me?” he said. “Ah! Y-yeah, well, Midoriya Izuku, I'm in your care from now on!” He quickly wiped the sweat off his forehead.

Iida's glasses were glinting in the light. “Midoriya, is it? Not only in combat, in choosing partner, in teamwork... but in the spirit of heroism your performance was top-notch!” he said. “Not a one in the exam thought to stop and save a fellow examiner in need, except you and your team!”

Then all of a sudden his shoulder dropped just a little “But, uh, about that infraction, I realized you could have been top of the class, if not for that-”

Izuku's shoulder jerked. _Here it comes,_ here _it comes..._

“Oh, I apologize if that's something I shouldn't have asked!” Iida gave a deep, very angular bow. “It just is hardly becoming of U.A. to mete out infractions for someone who's clearly done nothing wrong and whose heroics is entirely admirable! Have you by any chance filed a complaint to the school?”

Izuku gulped. “Uh... no, well...” He scratched his head. “There's a reason, you see-”

He looked to the seat in front of him for aid, and Ochako answered. “The school didn't like his trashing an arm to save _people_ ,” she said. “Obviously.”

“Is that true, Midoriya?” exclaimed Iida. “All the more reason to file a complaint! It simply wouldn't do for a school of heroics to penalize acts of heroism!”

“Er, well, I... I'm fine with it, really,” Izuku said. “It isn't like I got disqualified for the infraction...”

He had half-expected Kacchan to bust in and say something hurtful, as was his wont. But today Kacchan said nothing. He only glared, and lift the corner of his lips in an angle and creasing his forehead. Except for that he was probably _incredibly_ angry, his face betrayed no further thought. There were times to find out that quietly angry Kacchan was even scarier than loud, exploding, swearing Kacchan, and the first day at the new school was not exactly one of them.

As it happened, Midoriya's brief moment of being the center of attention lasted for all of a minute.

“If you're hunting for buddies, do it elsewhere.”

***

“A-are you sure this is it?”

Izuku was not the only one so confused, and who could blame him? His homeroom teacher had turned out to be a – with all due respect – not very well-dressed or well-spoken man, who showed up at the classroom in his sleeping bag. Mr. Aizawa had wasted no time shoving all twenty of them down the so-called P.E. field, and now they were standing in front of said field...

If you could call it a _field_ , anyway.

For starters, it was hardly a stretch of green grass and red running tracks. No, the monstrosity before them was more like a jungle of concrete arranged willy-nilly across the landscape, like a tetris game went wrong. An unbroken wall was running across the width of the yard; its lowest stretch well twice as high as Izuku was tall and thick enough for him to comfortably walk on its top. In the distance behind there were visible many columns, thick and thin, square and round, the lowest no shorter than ten meters, the highest well close to actual high-rises.

One look at the man standing next to Mr. Aizawa was all Izuku needed to connect the dot. The biggest hint was that he looked not like a man at all, but rather a block of humanoid concrete, square and angular from top to toe.

“That's Cementoss, the urban terraforming specialist!” Izuku exclaimed. “Wow, I had no idea he's teaching at U.A.!”

Izuku's mumbling this time was only brought to a close due to a sharp gaze from said 'terraforming specialist'.

“Hope this is to your taste, Aizawa,” he said. “Not too hard, not too soft, and some puzzles and surprises inside, too.”

“That's all I need,” said Mr. Aizawa, knuckling the nearest section wall segment.

Then he flipped around, leaning against said wall. “I want to see everyone cross the obstacle course in ten minutes,” he said, raising a disc-shaped object vaguely resembling a bleeping archery target. “Find these plates, on those columns up there-” He pointed at the highest peaks in the mountain of concrete, “-and touch it or destroy it.”

Izuku could hear a host of different sounds about him: ohs and ahs and wows, for the most parts. There were outliers too: “So manly!”, “Time to rend”, “Hmph”, or, like Kacchan, quietly smirking.

It was, in hindsight, not the wisest of reactions; for Mr. Aizawa was now looking down the rank thanks to his considerable height. His bloodshot eyes were now a mite fiercer: his brows were upturned and sterner than it was before.

“Don't be too comfortable,” he said. “Those who arrive last, or contribute nothing to the class effort, will be judged to be _without potential._ ” His gaze was sharp and cold like a sword. “And expelled.”

At once the chorus died down, in its place eyes staring around, knuckles cracking, and more “Hmph”.

Mr. Aizawa was undaunted. “If it helps, the U.A. Sports Festival takes a similar format,” he said. “Now get to work.”

Then he walked off the field. “Ten minutes starts... now.”

There was no direct path between them and Mr. Aizawa's targets, save, perhaps, running out of the field all the way round several building blocks, and even then Izuku doubted Mr. Aizawa would think very well of the student who thought themselves clever that way.

_We have to carve our own way._

At any rate, the word “expel” was still ringing hard in Izuku's head when Kacchan growled and charged the lowest wall section..

“Small fries!” he cried. “DIE, CONCRETE, DIE!”

 _Blam_ went his palm, and then _blam_ and _blam_ again: a dent the size of a small kid was soon opening up, angry cracks spreading from its edge along the wall segment's length and height. Kacchan's hair was covered in a thin sheen of dust, as was his P.E. uniform. His lips were curved in such a way that Izuku would pity the wall, inanimate object though it was.

Then another classmate leaped forth. His hair was spiky, like one of those stereotypical manga characters, and flaming red. “Need a hand?” he said. As if on a cue, his muscles turned knotty and jagged, like a bar of poorly-hammered metal, or a slab of granite crudely hewn.

“Outta my way, shitty hair!”

So said Kacchan, but he did shift ever so slightly to one side. Spiky-redhead jumped in, and started hurling one punch after another at the foundation. When the chorus of “ _Shine shine shine!”_ and “ _Ora ora ora!_ ” died down, whatever was left of the wall had shattered and crumbled before iron fists and explosions.

Kacchan rushed through the opening without so much as a single “Thank you”.

On the other end of the wall, the rest were figuring things their own way. The tallest girl in the class was biting her lip: from the palm of her hand slowly materialized what looked like a shiny step-ladder. Another girl, short and froggy in expression, approached the wall with back hunched. She leaned backwards, then from her mouth lashed an impossibly long tongue; she vaulted over the wall propelled by both legs and tongue with surprising ease. Another girl with earphone jacks for earlobes had just now pierced the wall with said jacks; and Izuku could hear – no, _feel_ a very low grumbling sound fanning out from the point of contact.

“Guys!” she exclaimed. “Some part of the wall is not as solid as it seems!” She pointed at a spot at the base of the highest segment.

“Leave it to me,” said red-and-white; flicking his arm and sending a wave of ice at the spot. Hardly ten seconds had passed when the wall creaked, cracked and then imploded, much like an empty glass bottle in a freezer.

Then thick-lipped, muscular-looking fellow from behind them emptied a packet of what looked like tea sugar into his mouth. He howled, rushed forth, and bowled through the half-broken wall; it went down like a house of card.

Red-and-white run through after him – after securing the upper arc of the breach with yet another layer of ice. On the ground behind them were, mysteriously, three sets of dust-covered footsteps.

Now the ponytailed girl had finished creating the stepladder. Up she climbed, and on the top of the wall created a very large rubber cushion. She dropped it down the other side of the wall, and then threw herself down after it. After her ran the shortest boy in the class – a hobbit in size with a tuft of purple balls for hairs.

Before Izuku could properly _think_ anything worthwhile, he'd found his wrist locked by a soft yet impossibly strong grip. “Let's go, Midoriya!” shouted Ochako – because who else could it be?

“B-but then we'd still have contributed nothing, right?” said Izuku.

“Well the obstacle course isn't over yet, is it?” She smiled and winked. “We'll think of something next part, alright?” Then she winked and dragged him stumbling through the opening red-and-white had created.

Now the way had been cut off by a trench some three meters deep and a dozen wide. It looked benign enough, for there was no spikes or traps of any kind at the bottom. Jumping down, run across and climb back up at the other side, however, was nothing to scoff at. That other side was as smooth as concrete went without any place for hands of feet to catch into, and three meter was not something you could overcome without the right quirk.

With a _hmph_ Kacchan set to work. He held his hands out aiming at the ground, and _hmph_ he went again. There was a large explosion sending gravel and crushed mortar everywhere, and at the same time tossing him twenty feet into the air. Just as he was about to his the ground, he held out his palms once more. The second _boom_ hurled him over the remaining half of the trench and through to the other side.

Kacchan was the first and last person to cross the trench so effortlessly. The last explosion he set up was right noisy... and it wasn't due to Kacchan at all.

Before Izuku's eyes the solid ground began to crack, crack and _crack_. In seconds the creases and crevices had deepened and widened and spread to all corners of the trench.

“Uh oh,” went Ochako.

From under the cracks a dense purple gas seeped out, first in small quantities and barely visible, yet in ten seconds flat it had thickened like a cloud hovering over the trench.

“Uh oh,” went the object-creator.

The gas cloud didn't rise very high, but instead clung stubbornly to the bowel of the trench, daring the foolhardy to jump into it. The purple haze obscured a good part of the crevice, and suddenly jumping down no longer seemed very plausible – or very wise.

“Boys and girls, watch yourself now!”

Izuku looked up: his's eyes weren't so good any more, but who could mistake Present Mic's... quirky voice and distinct hairstyle? There he was standing on top of the tall round tower on the other side of the divide, shouting and gesturing at the students like the born master-of-ceremony he was, immersed in his impromptu live commentary.

“This thing's a kick to the head – a round of applause to our very own Ms. Midnight, please! Try one whiff, and bye bye consciousness, hello sweet dream! Well, for all of ten minutes, that is!”

“Midnight? The R-18 heroine?” Izuku said. “I see, so that's sleeping gas! Midnight's gas only work through inhalation, everyone! Don't breathe in the thing and we should be fine!”

Izuku's shout earned a couple of nods from his classmates: at any rate clever folk wouldn't want to wade through that substance; not without a mask of some sort and certainly if not pushed.

Spiky Redhead was not who you would call 'clever folk'. He huffed, drew in a gigantic breath, and threw himself down the bottom. He landed like a wrecking ball. “Banzai!” he cried.

He staggered, flailed around, and dropped unconscious within five seconds.

“K-Kirishima!”

Present Mic was roaring. “Oh boy oh boy, we have our first victim! Not very smart now are you? Now don't you go worry about him, boy's probably having the dream of his life like a hot date with a beau or something!”

Everyone was at least blanching a little.

Everyone, except red-and-white.

He leaped too, but not into the trench. From his palm he directed a gout of ice at the purple cloud below, and like an ice-powered rocket jetted off. Not a single wisp of violet touched his ice-sheathed body as he glided above the trench on the frozen bridge of his own making.

He landed on the other side, light as a professional gymnast.

Now the hobbitish fellow with purple balls for hair snapped his thumb. “Let's look cool,” he said. Pop went the purple balls into his hand; he stuck them to the bridge of ice one after the other and inched forward, one arm length after another.

“I can do better, _kero_.”

The frog girl stood at the edge for a couple seconds. Then, with a whip of her tongue, she performed what a frog did best: leap great distances. She landed next to the opposite end of the ice bridge long before purple-ball even reached the halfway point. She was very quickly followed by a wiry-looking fellow whose elbows were in the shape of tape rolls: he merely shot a long string of cellophane at the highest column in the distance and swung across.

“Already done that, thank you!” he exclaimed triumphantly.

As the crowd on their side of the trench grew smaller, Ochako's lip-biting grew correspondingly more frantic.

“If... If I float really hard, maybe I could get to the other side?” she said, and immediately turned a little rosy. “Sorry... that sounds stupid-”

Izuku's eyes widened. “No, Uraraka, listen!” he said, and very nearly grabbed her hand in joy. “Let's do this smarter and harder instead of just harder, okay?”

Ochako blinked. “How?”

“Can you control our weight on the fly?”

“Umm...” Ochako bit her lip. “Never did that before, but I can try?”

Izuku nodded. “That's good enough!”

Then he paused and turned the idea in his head again; it sounded less like a plan and more like folly the harder he thought. But it was the best he could come up with under the time pressure.

“Listen, I... I will throw us!”

Ochako's reaction was entirely expected: Eyes dilating and jaws agape. “Eeeeh?”

“R-relax!” Izuku waved his hands about. “I mean... well, exactly what I said! We'll tie ourselves to something that can be easily thrown. You'll keep our weight down, and then...” He looked her in the eyes. “I'm pretty sure I can do a good job slinging stuff; it's landing that's a problem-”

The girl's blinking intensified. “Well, where are we getting that string and something to throw?”

Izuku turned towards the ponytailed girl who'd created that step-ladder just now. “I've got a pretty good idea where.”

Fifteen seconds and an awkward question later, Izuku and Ochako found themselves the proud owner of a tailor-made throwing-spear to which a twenty-feet length of rope was tied.

“This what you need?” she said.

“Perfect!” said Izuku. “Thanks! Uh...”

“Yaoyorozu Momo,” she said. “And you're welcome!”

Izuku only nodded, and proceeded to tie the length of rope around his waist. _This is not stupid_ , he told himself.

“Hold tight, Uraraka,” he said as the girl wrapped her arm around his neck. Izuku's feet at once lost nearly every sensation of having ever had weight; the sensation spread through his body, and he could feel himself lightening, as if only a tenth of his mass remained. “Ready?”

“Whenever you are!” said Uraraka with a wink; her arms squeezing harder around Izuku than he thought she was able to.

He took aim at one of the columns in the distance. His finger flashed green for a blink of an eye, and sent the spear flying. “Now!”

The force of momentum was an awesome and uncontrollable thing. In a blink they were flying through the air like a bullet over the purple-filled trench... and not stopping at all.

It was just like Izuku thought: Taking off was easy, landing wasn't. They were flying like a bullet, flung forward with reckless abandon, fast, fast, _too fast_.

Izuku's brain was only operating on an instinctive level now. “N-now, Uraraka!” he cried, his voice higher and shriller than he thought he was capable of.

“R-release!”

At once Izuku felt weight on his body again, and their flight trajectory commensurately changed – now they'd slowed down so dramatically, and were dropping at a greater-than-sixty-degrees angle towards the ground.

If Izuku had been a ball, he would have bounced and bounced and _bounced_. An “Ooof!” escaped his lips, followed by Ochako's “Ow!”. The two rolled on the ground, cushioning each other (a remarkable and entirely instinctive thing), until they skidded to a stop in a heap, only missing a rock-hard pillar by a couple inches.

If it had been any other time, having his limbs tangled with a girl's would have been the peak of Izuku's embarrassment. Fortunately for them both, nobody was quite paying attention about the _getting into a compromising position_ part very much, including the two daring flyers themselves. With some effort and a couple “ouch” to spare, Izuku pulled to his leg; there was a biting pain in his knee like he'd broken skin, and his left elbow didn't feel exactly like itself either.

But he was moving and that was enough to one, help Ochako up, and two, complete his share of the test.

“You alright, Uraraka?”

“Y-yeah,” she said. “J-just a bit u-unwell ov-over he-”

She barely managed to stagger to the side of the pillar, and hurled around the corner.

“Hey guys!” he cried. “This is for anyone who needs it!” He hurled it to the other side of the divide.

Back on said other side, Yaoyorozu and that boy with electric blond hair was working out something of an agreement. She made what looked like a massive suction fan connected to a huge rubber bag. He smiled, and sent an accordingly massive bolt of pure electrical power at it. The fan roared to life, and in thirty seconds flat the purple smog had faded for the most part as the bag filled up.  
  
Now only tiny wisps of violets rose from the cracks, their color much less bright and deep. The rest of the student body who couldn't fly or jump high now began leaping down the trench and running to the other end, starting from Iida, holding Izuku's spear in one hand. Yaoyorozu was the last of them, and only because she was making a sort of hook-ladder en-masse.

_That's right, the test isn't over yet._

“The targets.” Izuku said, and threw a glance at the shiny things hanging all over the place.

Jutting from the ground were ten solid square pillar arranged in a circle surrounding the round tower where Present Mic stood; the shortest towering at least a dozen meters above the class, the tallest twice as high. At a squint, each tower seemed to have two 'targets' hung from its top on opposite sides, gleaming in the sunlight as if challenging the new batch of would-be heroes.

Ochako staggered to her feet, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. She rubbed her temple, and now there was a shine in her eyes as if everything was perfectly fine and dandy. “Alright, we made it!” she exclaimed, though her voice betrayed no small amount of exhaustion still. “This should be easy enough~”

Apparently Kacchan had thought the same: With a toothy, smirky grin he blasted at the ground, propelling himself all the way to the highest target in range.

They both found out in short order that Present Mic was there for a _reason_.

“OOOH YEAH, TRY HARDER BOYS AND GIRLS!”

Kacchan's normally very loud “WHAT THE FLYING FUCK?” was drowned out by the resulting sound-wave; it blasted Kacchan right out of the sky like a fly-swatter.

Izuku's head rang like a bell. _So... this is the power of the pros?_

The only good thing to come of that spectacle was that thanks to Kacchan the ground was now littered with bits and pieces of debris. And when there was debris, there was ammunition.

He picked up a piece of concrete and hurled it at the nearest target. Hardly had it even glanced the surface when Present Mic's next sound-wave batted it off like laser off a deflector shield..

“Need more power, _kero_.” remarked the frog-girl, staggering about, hands clutching her ears. She, too, had also been knocked off her ascent for the fourth time, and was winding up for a fifth attempt.

Not everyone was unsuccessful, however. Red-and-white, seemingly meditating all this while, now opened his eyes wide; he stared at the second tallest column like it was an enemy; and with a wave of his arm encased the forty meters of concrete in fifty meters of ice, target and all. The spectacle succeeded in three things: completing the task requirement, wowing everyone but Kacchan, and making the latter _even angrier_ if it was possible.

“WOW! SPECTACULAR PERFORMANCE AND SPLENDID SPECTACLE, TODOROKI!”

“Don't steal my thunder, half-and-half bastard!” he shouted, and once again launched himself upward. He came a little closer this time, and in fact had almost touched one finger on the target when the next sound wave flung him half a dozen meters away.

For a few seconds Izuku was just standing there, thinking, thinking, _thinking_. Present Mic was projecting a truly omnidirectional ripple of sound all about him, but only in short intervals: he was human after all, and couldn't keep shouting for very long at a time if he was to keep at it till the end of the test, now could he?

Briefly Izuku considered trying for a lower-hung target. But then he decided against it: One For All could help him reach the highest target if he only extended himself a bit. Many of his classmates were ill-equipped to even touch the ones hung lowest.

Izuku closed his eyes. He couldn't let himself be expelled on day one... but he'd try to keep his new classmates from that same fate if he could.

_Top one, that is. And there's only one way to offset for my poor eyesight..._

“Hey, Uraraka,” Izuku said, his hand touching his uniform shoulder. “Would it be a bad idea if I tore my P.E. uniform on the very first day?”

“W-why?”

“Because-” He grabbed his own sleeve and gave it a mighty tug. “-I need a sling!”

The sleeve came off with a loud rip that must have drawn more than one pair of eyes at him, because Izuku felt like the back of his neck was on fire. He thought he heard something sounding roughly like “Eww, exhibitionist!” (or was it “Nudist”?) in a squeaky voice from behind, too.

He reached out for the nearest pile of rubble and fished out a dozen broken shards, each fitting well into his palm. He whirled around, and aimed for the bull's eye on top of the one pillar nobody was yet going for. He spun his whole body...

_It's just an exercise, right?_

_…_ and let go.

Dull pain shot through his arm as a buckshot's worth of concrete shards was sent hurling at the target's general direction. The pellets spread out across the whole breadth of the pillar.

“WOW LOOK AT THAT, AN IMPROVISED WEAPON! I don't recommend destroying uniforms though!”

The sound-wave didn't come in time to stop all of the projectiles. It knocked the weaker and smaller shots off the air; the bigger, faster and more weighty ones it could not. One of the shards his the target squarely in the middle, punching through it and nailed it solid into the pillar behind. No matter how Izuku looked at it, that target was as good as 'destroyed'.

Present Mic seemed to agree. “AND MIDORIYA IS DONE!”

Izuku grimaced and sat down on the cold stone floor, clutching his shoulder. It was the closest he could come to his arm's limit without breaking it.

But he wasn't _done_ done yet: There were still a few of his classmates who weren't getting any closer to their target. Shouldn't he help them with their share of the work?

 _But that is academic dishonesty!_ Cried a part of him.

 _Well this is an exercise in teamwork!_ Reasoned another part.

_Besides are you going to just see people getting expelled on day one without doing anything to help?_

_Besides besides didn't other people help you get so far too? Wouldn't it be fair to repay them somehow? Uraraka, at least?_

The blood rushing to his cheek at the last thought told Izuku he was at least blushing slightly. It also told him that the deal was sealed. He bit his lip, eked out a hard smile like All Might was wont to, and picked up several more concrete shards. He waited until after Present Mic's next shout (which happened to be “AT LONG LAST, BAKUGOU! SIXTH TIME'S THE CHARM!”) and released the buckshot as best as he could at the lowest target in sight – aiming specifically for the suspension cord. _I just need to bring it down, right?_

It was halfway successful: The cord did break and the target did fall, but a glancing blow had left a nasty-looking dent on the plate. Izuku rushed to collect the target, and then hurled it towards Ochako.

“Uraraka!” he shouted. “That's yours!”

The moment Ochako's finger touched the plate, Present Mic went booming again. “OH HEY, GENTLEMANLY BEHAVIOR IS STILL IN VOGUE, EH? URARAKA, DONE!” he shouted, and Izuku found himself both blushing and so, so much more motivated now.

In fact, he was already in the middle of another swing when suddenly his arm felt _weak_. The back of his head was burning, like someone's gaze was drilling into it, deeper and more savagely than he was ever used to. His next release was effortlessly blocked by Present Mic's “OH YEAH, THREE CHEERS FOR ASUI! CONGRATU-WHOOPING-LATIONS!”

The next couple minutes passed by in a blur. Izuku did get an eyeful of what everyone else in his class could do: apparently his idea of shooting down the target got a couple copiers too. The most peculiar came in the form of a very big swallow flying through Present Mic's shouting like a fighter jet dodging AA autocannon fire. It landed on a target, and pecked and pecked away at the suspension cord until it came undone.

Izuku couldn't recall _how_ the event exactly ended, except that he was now standing in a line with his classmates, his ears ringing, his body aching, his arms hung limply at his side. Mr. Aizawa was surveying the rank now. Maybe it was just Izuku, but he could swear his scowl had faded considerably.

“Not too shabby, the lot of you,” he said. “Still a lot of work to be done for sure, but we can work with that shall we?”

There were a few, indecisive “Yes, sir,” around Izuku, both male and female.

“Now some you must be worried about the expulsion I promised,” Mr. Aizawa said; and Izuku thought he could feel a right shadow of fear and disappointment washing over the crowd. “I regret to inform you that... there will be no expulsion.”

The chorus of “Eh?” and “What?” was so loud Midoriya's eardrum nearly burst. For once, Izuku welcomed the commotion with open arms.

The noise lasted until Mr. Aizawa blew his whistle. "A logical ruse, is what it is. You wouldn't put your best into it unless your back's to the wall," he said. “But that doesn't mean you have all lived up to our expectation. The following students shall stay behind after class for a chat – consider this your orientation of a sort.” He began ticking a list on his clipboard. “Aoyama. Hagakure.” His brow raised quizzically at a mass of animate P.E. Uniform. “ Kirishima. Kouta. And-”

His eyes met Izuku's. “Midoriya.”

***

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes and Fanon: 
> 
> \- The quote "There are some things you can't share without ending up liking each other" comes from Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. I like to think HP exists in this universe too.  
> \- Even though this version of the quirk apprehension test was (IMO) less biased than the canon version, it still very heavily favors physical or powerful support quirks: Yaomomo is very easily the 1-A MVP here.  
> \- This is the first chapter where Bilbo doesn't appear at all: The (new and maybe improved) Quirk Apprehension Test takes up so much space and requires such a continuous scene I thought it best not to interject with Middle-Earth material.


	11. Last Homely House, First Homely Advice

**CHAPTER 10**

**LAST HOMELY HOUSE, FIRST HOMELY ADVICE**

 

Bilbo felt very much like talking to anyone and everyone along the journey to Rivendell.

In fact, he'd planned on not stopping at all, not while 'elves' was still a swear word to the company of dwarves (well, most of them anyway. Ori, for instance, was more curious than anything else about meeting elves).

Today, however, the dwarves were less receptive to story-telling of any sort and for a reason less attributable to their race's stereotypical grumpiness.

 _“A little bird told me,”_ Gandalf had said, _“the countryside around the Last Homely House is a fair bit less secure than I should like. Goblins from the Misty Mountains are growing restless; we had best be on our guard.”_

For the last several hours the company had been looking out and about for any sign of movement. They turned their large noses up in the air, should there be any whiff of goblins they'd be forewarned.Thorin was especially sullen: his hand never left the hilt of his new sword.

But there had been so far little of interest. Even the view, normally bright and green with grass below and boughs above, had for the moment quite dull and tiresome. They had been climbing up a slope that started gentle but was now steadily becoming steeper. There was neither flora nor fauna about them; their only company were the line of white stones, mossy and and weathered, doing an altogether poor job of marking the path. Gandalf rode confidently like he knew the place very well, yet even he was swaying his head from side to side once every so often, to keep their bearing, perhaps.

The road went on and on, and became harder and rougher as daylight segued into darkness. Soon the moon was hanging above the company, and the stars twinkled. The company didn't stop for camp, but resorted to chewing on bread and salted meat washed down by plain water. The ponies were now slowing, tired as they were, and no longer so keen of eyesight as to avoid all the roots and stones strewn about.

Now Bilbo began to hear sounds. Not noises, because that would imply unpleasantness; these were songs and laughter, mirthful and clear; they were singing of Elbereth the Star-kindler who dwelt beyond the Western Seas, and there was the music of a harp, too, its melody melting into the breeze.

“Elves,” said Thorin, and Bilbo could almost _hear_ him scowling.

Soon they came to a place where the road was flanked by two very old oak trees – the only, in fact, in a long stretch. Underneath their boughs stood the elves: five riders in all, mounted atop white-maned coursers. Each was clad in gleaming mail that sparkled in the moonlight beneath their blue tabards. Upon their chests Bilbo saw a diamond emblem of which like he had never chanced to witness, depicting a harp and a torch upon green field. On their heads were tall helms upon which waves and stars were carved, and at their sides straight swords with enjeweled hilts were hung.

Now Gandalf rode to the fore, and Bilbo noticed just how tall the elves and their horses were: the wizard astride his draft-horse was only up to the riders' chins. The leader of the riders rode forth, too: wisp of golden hair were flowing from underneath his helmet, and his eyes were like blue stars beneath his dark brows.

“Why, if it isn't Gildor!” said Gandalf. “A fair face for a not quite fair time, indeed!”

“Long have we been waiting for your arrival, Mithrandir,” said elf-captain. “And for yours, Thorin Oakenshield.”

“Well, well, well, strong is the irony!” cried Thorin. “That elves should be waiting for us on the road to reclaim our home, while they turned tail and ran while said home burnt and smoked!”

“It is only as ironic as you think, o master dwarf” said the elf. “Whichever quarrel you might have had with our faraway kin, we had partaken little in it – or more likely none at all. Gildor Inglorion of the House of Finrod I am; in the name of Master Elrond Peredhel I offer our service and friendship if you should have them.”

“Your service, perhaps; your friendship, not quite, thank you very much,” said Thorin. “It is inconvenient indeed, Gildor of Finrod's House, that such friendship would come to no reward. We have neither gold nor gems but what is on our person; and if it's old Thror's hoard that motivated you-”

Gandalf's brows were jittering. “I'm afraid, Thorin,” he began, “these words have been spoken with neither courtesy nor wisdom-”

“Without courtesy? Maybe. Without wisdom? I think not” Thorin said. “With elves of all ilks it is often wiser to be watchful.”

“You think poorly of the goodwill of my kin,” said Gildor. “This is within your right, though I wish you would reconsider it all the same. We seek not your gold, or any sort of material reward, for untrue are friendship driven by gold and gems or such love for them. Besides, we should aid you but for a small portion of your journey; past the Misty Mountains we have no great desire to travel and for the dwarven hoard we have even smaller love.”

“Then tell me, elf, what bid you come to our aid?” Thorin said. “We should not like receive help from those whose purposes are unknown; for often untrue too are ostensibly good things that come unearned, so the wisdom goes.”

Bilbo looked around. The older dwarves were keeping their weapons at bay, their gaze scrutinizing the elves still. The younger, however, were exchanging quick glances at each other. Kili and Ori were especially perturbed. “I don't like the look of this,” mouthed the latter, and then went still.

“Is friendship itself not a benefit?” asked Gildor. “The folk of Durin in Moria your kin, as I do remember keenly, were friends with the smiths of Eregion mine; and though that friendship had long since fallen cold, my lord Elrond desires it rekindled again.”

“Then why had you not acted when my people were in need? Not offered refugee to the my folk scattered to all four corners of the earth? Not come to our aid when dwarves were wronged and injustice brought to our very doorsteps? Why not take it upon yourself to rid the world of those orcs who carved their names on my grandfather's skull and left so many dwarven dead on the field? Why not destroy Smaug?”

It might be a trick of the light, but Bilbo could swear he saw the light across the elves' brows dim. Gildor's brows fell, and there was little gentleness in his face now.

Thorin's stare had now turned sharp, like a wicked hook. “Why come now offering aid and friendship? I would be a fool indeed if I took your offer at face value.”

“Thorin Oakenshield!” cried Gandalf. “You are turning away the only people who would offer you assistance so freely!”

“You misunderstand, Gandalf,” said Thorin. “I shall accept your assistance, elf, as I have said I would. All the same, I bid you keep your offer for 'friendship' to yourselves, for Durin's folk shall be better off without it. I shall see your Master Elrond, and hear the price he names. If it is not to our liking, there shall be no deal.”

Long did silence fell upon the gathering, and when Gildor spoke again his voice became deeper and more wistful. “It shall be as you say, master dwarf,” he said. “Come, if you would! It is a fair ride to Rivendell, and the road is no longer so friendly to those who walk not in the shadow!”

_***_

“Tell Midoriya he's next.”

Aizawa Shouta spun his pen as the door closed in front of him. He reclined against the chair, and ticked Hagakure Tooru's name off the checklist.

All told, this batch of embryos were more promising than he'd given them credit at first. That included a girl whose only distinction was the ability to literally blend in. Speaking of whom, it hadn't been easy at all providing advice to Hagakure; not when her entire body – and that meant expression – was invisible.

At least her voice made her attitude as transparent as her body was: she had a range of tone that ran the gamut from 'worried stiff' to 'so bubbly it made Shouta's head hurt', as it was at the beginning and end of their talk respectively.

 _They can be helped. I shall do what I must,_ thought Shouta, returning to his list.

 _Ah_. The next case was perhaps the most problematic he had to see today – and he had just had a stern talking-to to a hormonal teenager who had trouble respecting the girls' personal space during the exercise no less!

The door creaked open and a short boy came in, his bushy green hair obscuring much of his downcast face. Midoriya Izuku stood out a lot less from a crowd than Shouta had thought he would. Nobody would think this diminutive kid was any hero material.

The first thing the boy did entering Shouta's office was to look around, and suddenly Eraserhead the hero felt a little self-conscious. His was a plain, generic room for the most part, though cleaner and more orderly than most people would expect of him.

Now Midoriya was drawing closer towards Shouta in small, quivering steps. “Mr. Aizawa, sir,” he said at last with a voice closer to a mumble.

“Sit down,” he said, motioning towards the chair opposite to his desk.

Midoriya was shivering a little as he sat down in the tiny steel folding chair. The decisiveness he'd shown in the training exercise had all but vanished. Shouta thought he was looking at a green-haired version of himself in high school – except with a whole lot less sass and eleventy times more insecurity. Some people, it seemed, would only come assertive when trouble was knocking at their doors.

“So, Midoriya Izuku.” Shouta began. “The boy who could have been top of the exam had it not been for the infraction points.”

At first Midoriya said nothing; he kept staring at the blank floor, hands clasped in his lap. The air in the room was condensing _quick_ , and it wasn't even Shouta's doing this time.

“Yes, sir,” Midoriya said only after the silence had become unbearable, matter-of-factly but not assertively. His fingers were fidgeting, and he was drawing back on his chair.

“I was watching your performance with interest,” Shouta began. “It was not pleasant at all erasing your quirk at the last minute.”

Midoriya's head perked up. “Erasing my quirk?” There was fear and astonishment in his voice still, but a kind of boyish enthusiasm had drowned out most of it. “Y-you don't mean... you're Eraserhead? The erasing hero who never goes public if he can help it?”

His timidness faded, and Shouta could almost hear _I'm your biggest fan_ from his excitement barely held back.

“Sharp. Last time I checked, yes, I am him.” Shouta reclined back against his backrest. “But here I'm a teacher, and teachers teach – and that means preventing you children from doing anything stupid. For example, _I_ was the one putting a twenty-point infraction on your record during the entrance exam.” He paused. “Do you know why?”

Midoriya's sudden bout of enthusiasm deflated equally suddenly. What Shouta had done then and what he was doing now would seem so unfair at first sight, yes, but he had expected anyone with half a brain to see the reason in it. Midoriya, as it happened, had his share of brains.

“Because I broke my arm saving Uraraka, sir,” he said, voice seemingly diminishing with every word spoken. “It was... it was the right thing to do at the time-”

“Only to the extent that you _had_ to take some sort of action,” said Shouta. “Using an arm-breaking quirk wasn't the _only_ thing you could have done. You could have used that same quirk to free her from the rubble and run, for instance. Or distract the robot by whatever means – you had a sling and plenty of rocks around; you aren't lacking in the creativity department far as I can see. We make them big, we don't make them smart.”

Midoriya bit his lips. His jaw was shaking now: like his mouth had been sewn shut despite his great desire to talk. _Good. We need more listener instead of blabbers._

Shouta's gaze became harder and more focused. “Midoriya,” he said. “You're not a worthless student – at least I hope as much. So I shall tell you this: suicidal heroes do nobody any good.”

The boy's eyes shot up. “You're wrong.”

Shouta cocked a brow. “Oh?”

And then suddenly the boy sprang up, so swift the chair nearly fell over behind him. There was fire in his eyes and _rage_ in his voice. “You're wrong, Mr. Aizawa!” he cried.

Where did that attitude come from? Did he judge the boy wrong? Was he just one of the arrogant good-for-nothings after all? “And why would I be?” Shouta asked.

But those same blazing eyes were wet now, staring at him without a blink. Midoriya's jaw stiffened; and Shouta thought he could hear grinding as far as where he was sitting.

“Because sometimes you can't help it!” he cried. “Because sometimes there are innocent people who could _die_ if you don't do anything! Because sometimes you _have_ to put yourself between danger and those people who can't defend themselves!”

It wasn't anger he saw, no, not the kind of childish indignation a boy would fling at an adult scolding him because _how dare the adults think he had done something wrong_. No, it was a different kind of anger: _You have offended something, or someone, I respect_ , it said.

Midoriya's pause was broken by muffled sobs. “Mr. Aizawa, isn't that what being a hero is all about? To bear the burden of pain and suffering so others don't have to? To lay down your lives so others may live? Are you telling me that is wrong?”

 _Oh, there it is_. Shouta would shake his head and smirk, but professionalism stayed his hand. Many would-be heroes had been ruined by hubris, egotism, greed and a thousand vices born out of a head too swollen. Whoever had taught this boy about heroism must have gone too far in the other direction.

 _Which is just as bad_.

Midoriya was wiping his face with his left sleeve. His shoulders were shaking. He was gritting his teeth, too, but all Shouta could hear were more sobs.

Shouta stood up. He went over to the table at the side, picked up the jar of water and poured a glass. “Sit down,” he said, putting the glass down in front of the boy. “Drink.”

Midoriya was still shaking after he'd drained the glass. He wasn't gritting his teeth any more, and his gaze had become a good deal less angry. In fact, those eyes now reminded Shouta of a puppy being scolded: wide and innocent and said 'what did I do wrong?'.

 _Good_.

Shouta inched the box of damp wipes across the table – the same box he'd had little reason to use for a months now.

Midoriya picked up the box and clumsily drew a sheet.

“Are you finished?” asked Shouta.

Midoriya didn't say anything, but he nodded, first slowly, then more quickly. Not at all unexpected, all told. He waited until Midoriya had set the dirty wipe into a wad on his side of the table before clearing his voice again.

“You're not wrong,” he said. “Heroes are expected to be selfless and sacrificing. But they don't go out of their way looking for injury and death, not unless every other option had been exhausted. That's the difference between a madman with a death wish and a hero.”

Here Shouta paused. On this point he'd had so many things he just wanted to let spill: being a pro-hero for more than a decade had a way of accumulating one kind of trauma after the other. Trauma that, he decided, a teenager like Midoriya here had no need to know just yet.

“Making sure heroes do not have to run into battles where they had no choice but to sacrifice themselves is the hero community's joint responsibility. Training. Intelligence. Coordination. Backup. That's what we provide,” he said. “Usually this sort of effort works. Sometimes it doesn't because life has a way of mucking up the best made plans, but that's beside the point.”

“A hero's prime directive is to save lives, and this includes their own if they can. They just put others' lives way higher in the order of priority.”

A minute passed in silence, and deep inside Shouta was more than a little _afraid_. Afraid of being wrong about the boy above all else: if Midoriya _wouldn't_ understand that much, maybe he wasn't fit to be a hero after all-

Then he heard what sounded like a wet sniff. “I...” Izuku said. “I'm sorry, sir,” and his voice was so resigned. He stared at the ground and wiped his eyes: like something had just _broken_ down within him and he didn't know what to say.

For that matter, neither did Shouta. “Apology accepted,” he ended up saying, and at once wasn't sure if it was helpful.

“Anyway, I was keeping a close eye on you; see whether you'd pull off another self-destructive shenanigan again. Whether you have anything worth keeping other than a quirk too amazing to control – because in the real world if you break all your limbs saving anyone, you'd be no hero. You'd be a burden.”

Midoriya's lips trembled. Shouta stopped – he wouldn't rule out another outburst just yet. None of the sort came about. _Thank the deities for small favors._

He waited until the trembling had died down before continuing at any rate. “But then I decided to give you a chance.” _Because taking away chances from kids with potentials is worse than giving chances to those without_. “And if you had screwed it up Recovery Girl would have had my head. Turned out you didn't do half bad.” He looked in Midoriya's now wide open eyes. “You didn't really break anything. Well, you were _going to_ , but you hadn't been doing too bad before that.”

“But I...” Midoriya scratched his head. “I thought I hadn't been contributing too much to the groupwork. I had one chance to help-”

Shouta sighed. “Repeat after me, Midoriya Izuku,” he said. “ _Not every hero need to single-handedly save the day every time_.” If he was to rant about whatever teacher the boy had had before, he'd be there all day. “Your quirk can be totally unsuitable to tackling a challenge head-on, or even at all. Your presence might even make the job harder for other heroes who _are_ actually equipped to deal with the situation. At which point you have to use good judgement. Look at what Hagakure did.”

“Hagakure?” Midoriya exclaimed. “Oh! That invisible girl, sir?”

Shouta nodded once.“For obvious reasons I kept a closer eye on her than most throughout the exercise. The test is designed in such a way that she has no way to contribute in any significant way to the class effort – and that's more or less on point.” Shouta crossed his arm and leaned back against his chair. “Guess what she did. Going with the flow, take help from everyone, both intentionally given and not so much, and concluded her task by picking up a target Bakugou had felled _by accident_ because he didn't think twice about unnecessarily blowing up a column's top.”

“But didn't you tell us those who wouldn't complete the exercise or contribute to the group effort would be-”

“Expelled; that's what I said,” said Shouta. “It turns out, what a surprise, sometimes the best you can do to contribute to the group effort is 'not get in the way' and 'think out of the box'. Hagakure did this exactly.”

Midoriya's eyes were now the equivalent of deers-in-headlight. And then he suddenly found the table's leg to be incredibly fascinating. His mouth began to machine-gun _words_ that seemed to make no sense whatsoever. Shouta glared at him: a human mouth without related quirk had _no business_ running so fast!

“I cannot hear anything, Midoriya,” Shouta said sternly – and not without a small dash of amusement.

Midoriya shuddered. “Ah!” His shoulder jerked. “I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean to-”

“Apology accepted,” said Shouta. He had a gut feeling those were words he would have to say a lot from now on.

He waited for Midoriya to settle down before going on once more. “When I said I shall expel those who has no potential, I meant it,” he said. “Because it is infinitely crueler to let you children live with the illusion that you can be what you can't. You've shown yourself to be of non-zero potential.”

_As did the rest of this class, really._

“Now I won't go poking my nose into the business of your quirk. Living with such a thing is trouble enough, I imagine,.” He said. “But I _will_ have you do whatever you can to shore up your weakness, because with a quirk so unstable your potential is close to zero until you do something about it. Consider this your homework. Work harder, work smarter, consult someone older and wiser and more skilled to train you... whichever you think fit.”

“Yes, sir,” said Midoriya, and Shouta thought his voice was a little more upbeat this time around.

“I advice you go see Recovery Girl before you leave school.,” Shouta said. “Sure you haven't broken anything, but I can hear your joints and ligaments groan this far away. Better be safe than sorry.” For the records, Shouta couldn't actually _hear_ that. But the boy's posture, stiff and uncomfortable around the throwing arm, was obvious the moment he stepped into the room. “The woman might even give you a tip or two on taking care of your body when using that quirk of yours if you asked nicely.”

“Sir,” Midoriya said. Then he bowed like the well-mannered boy he was, turned around and left the room. He looked surprisingly chipper for a teenager who had just been told that his reward for doing well was even more work. Was there something like a tiny smile on his lips, too?

Just as the boy was about to pass through the door, Aizawa gave him another Focused Stare. “Oh, and try not to wreck your uniform next time,” he said. “I'll let it slide this time. The school will bill you for the next.”

The boy shivered. “Yes, sir!” he exclaimed, shuffled off and closed the door behind him louder and more forceful than his personality would suggest..

_Let's not make the kids think you've grown soft now._

Hardly had the door clicked shut when Shouta's eyes wandered to the warm fluffy sleeping-bag tucked underneath his table. _All's right with my world._

***

The company of dwarves and elves rode as quietly as they could up the great slope. The elves' horses were quiet as a breeze, their hooves light upon the rocky earth. The dwarves' ponies were noiser and less swift, which made the elves' point of traveling quietly moot anyway.

Then the upwards slope turned sharply down, and there was the smell of flowers and leaves again: “Here we are at last,” said Gandalf, and down the company looked into a vast valley filled with trees and leaves, shrouded in the darkness though it might now be. A waterfall fed into a gentle waterway that never stopped flowing across the dell. It was past midnight now, and there were fireflies about like stars on earth.

For a short while they traveled down a path cut into the mountainside, which soon turned into a leveled path, flat and grassy that led all the way to the brink of a stream. There at the river's edge there was a plain bridge of stone without grand railing or decoration. They dismounted there, first the elves, then the wizard, then the younger dwarves and Bilbo, then the elder and Thorin last of all. Gildor and his elves lit their torches that shone ember into the river underneath; then one after the other the party led their horses and ponies by the bridles across the bridge.

Now they arrived at an archway of wood and stone, carved and chiseled into the likeness of stars and leaves. A long wall extended in either direction behind which lay silhouettes of roofs and tiles; and on the rampart Bilbo could spot the tints of blue tabards and gleams of mail under the light of moon and star. Of this warlikeness his mother had never spoken, and it made him a little apprehensive. She had spoken much about the elves' elegance and mastery of all that which was beautiful; never about their crafts of war. Besides, there had barely been any needs for arms in the Shire for long enough, Bilbo couldn't help but be mildly alarmed.

There at the archway stood an elf-lord, fair and gentle, clad in a blue-hemmed white robe that hung to his ankle, and a tiara of silver atop the crown of his head. He was flanked on the one side by an assistant of a sort, dressed in a humbler robe of blue. On his other stood an elf-at-arms whose tabard bore the symbol of a six-petaled flower on a gold-rimmed blue field.

Now Gildor Inglorion walked briskly to face the elf-lord. He dipped his head in a bow, and then turned around to face the dwarves. “Master Elrond Peredhel Earendilion,” he said.

As if on cue Balin stood forth. “Prince Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror King under The Mountain,” he said with a bow towards his lord.

“We've been looking forward to your arrival,” said Elrond. He stepped forward and offered a bow of his own. “I bid you welcome to my Home, Master Thorin. Gandalf has told of your quest-”

Thorin waved his hand. “My good lord,” he said. “As the hour is late and our business urgent, I should like to make this very quick. Name your price for your assistance.”

At once dead silence fell upon the meeting. For long did the two distinguished leaders stare at each other; Thorin with annoyance, Elrond with measured interest. Then Gildor whispered something into his ears, and Elrond's brows knitted a little closer.

An uneasy second passed. Then another, and a third and a fourth.

Then Elrond looked back upon Thorin. “Friendship and assistance in need is beyond price, Master Thorin,” he said. “But if you should be so adamant in putting a value upon that which is priceless, I would acquiesce. We should ask for but the market value as you should find fair, for lodging in my Home plus any supplies you would require – or that Mithrandir would deem necessary for the road ahead.”

Thorin shook his head hard. “That much payment is but a trifle to a King and you know it, my lord,” he said. “I have been sincere and outspoken on my part; perhaps it is proper that you would be candid in return. So I should ask again: What, precisely, would you want of us in exchange for your assistance?”

For a moment Bilbo had no idea what exactly he was hearing. _Thorin is suspicious of the elves_ because _they were asking for a low price?_

And then it suddenly dawned to him as to _why_. Dwarves were as a rule the masters when it came to trading and bargaining and all things related to money. These particular dwarves had lost much, were obstinately proud, had a very good eye on the value of things both in hand and out of, and had every reason (in their own thinking) to distrust the elves. Of _course_ they would be suspicious of assistance granted freely – because to accept it meant owing these elves a favor down the line. Had Elrond asked for a king's ransom in gold and gems Thorin might have actually taken the offer better!

Could Bilbo do anything about the matter?

_Actually, I can._

His curled fists stiffened. He drew himself forward and stopped just behind Thorin. “If I may have a word, Master Thorin?” asked Bilbo.

At once being the object of two dozen dwarves and elves' attention was, in hindsight, not the most comfortable moment in the hobbit's life. “Speak,” he heard Thorin say with his gravely voice, and could only take confidence in that the dwarf-lord's reaction was not completely negative.

Bilbo tightened his fist and straightened his back. If Izuku had no issue breaking an arm saving people, Bilbo certainly could part with coins (that he didn't yet have, mind) to make a deal go sweeter.

“Master Elrond,” he began. “It's unwise to deal in gold with elves, so said my mother, because they are merry all the more without it, but for the sake of this matter I beg your indulgence.” His breath turned into a huff. “I shall bequeath to you and your kin a third – half, if need be – of my share in treasure gained from this quest such as I may gain-” Here he paused again, very quickly catching another breath and a thought or two. “-and the promise of friendship of my own and all the hobbit-folk of my House as long as you would have it, in exchange for your goodwill and assistance. In return-”

He heard gasps from behind and about him, and felt sweat soaking the back of his under-shirt. But the elf-lord was studying him attentively, and he nodded once. “I'm listening, my good sir,” he said.

“In return, I should like that you would demand no further favor of any kind or in any form from Master Thorin and his Company upon the completion of our quest,” he said quickly. “I implore you take my offer, for I doubt we can arrive at any other to please all.” So quick he was speaking his voice was almost down to a squeak. “I am quite aware it is never wise to hold under duress an elf-lord in his own Home, but I should not like take no for an answer!”

A few gasps had turned now into 'oh's and 'ah's. Bilbo could almost see his fellow dwarves nodding approvingly behind him. Well, except for Nori, for he was stomping on the ground hard. "You're actually giving your money to elves?" he cried. "You could have given me! I would know where best to spend it!" He was collectively silenced by several knuckles to the noggins. 

Before Bilbo, the elf-lord was gradually raising his brow most quizzically. Embarrassment and no small fear filled the hobbit: _What have you done, Bilbo Baggins?_ he thought, and at once his mind jumped to those frightening tales of less-than-benevolent elves, who had a fey sense of humor to those who offended them.

But then Master Elrond smiled, and nodded quite kindly. “Never to hold under duress an elf-lord in his own Home indeed!” he said. “I am party to this reception not because of any material compensation, but because I desire to help your Company.”

“That, well, that might be so,” said Bilbo. “All the same I'd wager it is quite difficult to offer assistance to a party unwilling to receive such help as you would give!”

“I am afraid, Master Elrond,” said Gandalf, “that the hobbit has the right idea. Master Thorin would not be quite agreeable to your assistance without such assurance that you would not hold the favor granted today against him down the line.”

“Very well then!” said Elrond. “I shall accept your offer and your condition. One third of the good hobbit's treasure, whichever it might be, in exchange for the help I would hereby grant you! Though know that I take it with little joy, for this is against our customs.”

It took Thorin a long time – longer than Bilbo had thought, and he'd reckoned Thorin was a slow thinker to begin with – to reach a decision of a kind. He looked up at Master Elrond, and both his face and voice were stone-hard.

“I am pleased, my lord, that we have reached an agreement,” said Thorin. “A rarity as it might be,” he added.

***

The Last Homely House was a truly remarkable place, all told.

His mother had told him some stories of the place, which back then he had taken for embellishment. Now he realized Mother's words actually fell short of reality. In the air about him there was the aroma of flowers, the sound of singing interspersed with running water, the touch of breeze that would never falter nor turn into an ugly gale.

And the sight! Rivendell might not be very big (it was larger than Hobbiton to be sure, but a far cry from Bree where he'd been once or twice), but what was there was a thing for the ages. There was a rueful spark of majesty about in each pattern, each carve of stone, each bout of wind, as if declaring they had been there centuries upon centuries before Bilbo was born, and would remain long after he was no more.

The elves led the dwarves into their guest-hall, and Bilbo thought it was less a guest-hall and more a guest-palace. There was a marvelous bath and a dozen kinds of fragrant-oil, there were chambers larger than his best bedroom outfitted with a large writing table and a large white bed, there were large windows that opened into the open beneath and beyond, there the water sang and the breeze whistled.

The dwarves were in a right ruckus before they'd even entered the bath. Jokes were made (at the expense of their hosts), songs sung (to the chagrin of said hosts) and rhymes recited (which said host found particularly distasteful and not quite funny). Bilbo was the last in line for the dip – suffice to say he'd had better baths in his lifetime, and was not exactly amused by the mess the dwarves had left behind.

But then the elves led Bilbo into his bedroom for the stay. It was a small and quiet place, fit for a hobbit, and smelled faintly of roses and jasmines. There was even had a small bookshelf full of leather-bound tomes whose title he had never heard before, a nice rack of coat-hangers at the side of the bed, and a writing table with paper and quill. It felt more like _home_ than Bilbo thought a road-stop could have ever been.

Bilbo climbed on the bed, and thought of his green-haired boy who'd seen the share of violence and death meant for the hobbit. His thoughts were brief and disorderly; sleep soon came upon him, for he was very tired and the bed very warm. Soon Bilbo fell into a familiar dream, dominated by so many filled notebooks on whose covers “ _Hero Analysis for the Future_ ” was written.

***

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes and Fanon:
> 
> \- On Thorin's personality and "Why is Thorin such a jerk to the Imladris folk?": 
> 
> This part is, as most familiar with both the book and the film would be able to tell, one of the more controversial changes made in the film adaptation. Thorin is no longer a long-winded, self-important and greedy dwarf who is largely a-okay with the folk of Rivendell, but is now a cold, brooding, elf-hating, full-of-emotional-baggage heir to a lost throne. 
> 
> At the risk of sounding like a sellout, I thought PJ's choice is on the whole defensible. IMO it was one part born from a need to create extra tension for the narrative and one part catering to existing tropes and conventions that had been created due to Tolkien but that which he never quite used (dwarves MUST hate elves and vice versa, the need for a brooding, attractive and halfway noble heir-to-the-throne figure). From a purely business-doing and selling what the market wants, PJ had made a good move.
> 
> That is not to say the execution didn't leave a LOT to be desired: I find the "Elves did not help us against a dragon, they must be scum" argument to be extremely weak in the face of everything else in the Legendarium related to the enmity-amity spectrum between dwarves and elves. To say nothing about what is essentially character assassination of both Thranduil and Legolas - though on this matter other people have spoken far more eloquently than I ever can.
> 
> For the purpose of telling a story, I decided to take this princely, headstrong personality and run with it. There are basically TWO reasons apart from bigotry that would make Thorin have a negative reaction to elves. First, he doesn't want to share the spoils of the quest with anyone else, be it treasure or Erebor itself, and therefore would rather go with minimal, non-dwarf help - this much is either book-canon or reliably follows from book material. Second, he is PROUD and does not want to be looked down upon by anyone, much less elves, and 'Free help" looks a bit too much like pity, which means NOPE.
> 
> \- On elven mail: the Noldor are generally depicted by many artists to wear mail and heraldic tabards, which may or may not display the emblems of their Houses from as far as the First Age. I haven't read any official work that confirms or denies this information: it seems a plausible theory given the personality of the Noldor. In addition, as I've said on more than one occasion: I draw the design for Middle-Earth elves' arms and armor less from the movie and more from the works of Merlkir (For the last time, go check his stuff! It is made of win!). Put together these two elements, and you get how I imagine the Imladris folks would ride to war. 
> 
> \- On the heraldic devices: Gildor Inglorion, true to his heritage, is wearing the emblem of the House of Finrod: a harp and a torch over green field. The 'guardsman' next to Elrond may or may not be (as in, as of this writing I have yet to make up my mind) Glorfindel himself, thus his mail's heraldry may be interpreted as the emblem of the House of Golden Flower of Gondolin. 
> 
> \- 'Everyone gets treated like kings in The Rivendell Inn' trope: This happens enough in fanon, that Rivendell is somehow this ginormous five-star hotel with baths and beds and booze and live music through the night (MInus the last part, probably) that everyone in the Company can sit down and relax and unwind. It has a basis in book-canon: "His house was perfect, whether you liked food, or sleep, or work, or story-telling, or singing, or just sitting and thinking best, or a pleasant mixture of them all". So I'll take that trope, and try not to exaggerate Elrond's hospitality too much.
> 
> \- Aizawa Doth Converse Too Much, And His Office Is Not Canon: I'll admit characterizing Eraserhead is a chore sometimes, if only because he is shown to be both an extremely diligent teacher who cares extremely deeply about his students and a lazy bum who sometimes can't even be arsed to keep the class under control. The former is what fanon is overwhelmingly depicting him as; the latter is funny where it can be (Caterpillar Aizawa, anyone?) For the purpose of this story, I'm putting that latter in the backseat, and welcome the diligent Eraserhead with a very high work ethic and a genuine desire to help his students in his own, acerbic way. The addition of a non-canon office room fro Aizawa serves to give him some space for private discussions with his students to this exact end: some of them have deep-seated issues that a teacher should ideally try to help as best as he can while keeping them as confidential as possible.


	12. The Wordsmith and the Costume-Smith

**CHAPTER 11**

**THE WORDSMITH AND THE COSTUME-SMITH**

 

The first thing Bilbo noted waking up was how stuffy the room was. Izuku's room, dark and full of memorabilia with a window rarely opened had never been the most airy of places. Now it felt immensely claustrophobic to someone who had been a guest at Master Elrond's Home. 

Bilbo shuffled to the window and opened it as wide as he could. It was dark still outside, and only very infrequently did a car zipped by, body melded into the shadow but for the headlights. Izuku's phone read ' _ 04:30, Wednesday _ '.  _ Enough time to catch up _ , he thought, and began flicking over the notes.

The first line he read made his heart beat about twice faster.

_ “I had a huge fallout today with Kacchan. I threatened him with death. I don't know what came over me.” _

That note was dated exactly one week ago, written so tersely without teenage slangs and not a one of those so-called 'emojis'. Izuku might be serious most of the time, but it was very unlike him to write anything without an emoji or two nowadays – or more if he was happy or excited. 

_ “I felt like a villain. All Might must be so disappointed if he knew. He told me I should forgive myself and try harder next time. I'm not sure about it.”  _

Bilbo could almost _feel_ how tense Izuku must have been. Then his eyes hit the paragraph break; the next words were somehow even worse.

_ “I thought to jump.” _

No amount of hobbitish stoutness could stop Bilbo blanching out. His mind conjured a most horrific image. 

_Flop of green hair. Pool of blood. Twisted limbs. Not moving._

The back of the All Might-printed pyjama was soaking wet; the smallest breeze through the open window sent chills up Bilbo's spine. 

Bilbo put the phone down and wiped his forehead with his sleeve and tried not to think anything at all. He rubbed his chest: the fact that he was _here_ on Izuku's bed, wearing Izuku's clothes and clad in Izuku's form meant that nasty, terrible, _hypothetical_ thing (hypothetical it was only, Bilbo repeated to himself) had not happened. _Yet_ , his mind appended, and he felt weak in the knees. 

He bit his lip, repressed the faint spell, and picked up the phone again.

_“But then Hijikata came. You'd saved his life, Bilbo, if you remember? He... persuaded me not to jump.”_

If it was any consolation, he thought, Izuku was probably waking up on a soft white bed under a soft white sheet, a jug of cool fountain-clear water and a plate of fruits crisp and sweet at his side. It honestly felt like cheating abusing his privilege as Master Elrond's guest to indirectly take care of his boy, but a hobbit had to do what a hobbit had to do.

Even so, Bilbo's diplomatic work would only become harder and harsher from then on. Not only would he have to mend bridges with Thorin and the dwarves, but also deal with Katsuki Bakugou somehow.

_Katsuki Bakugou._

Bilbo's ragged breathing turned quiet, and a scowl came to his face. 

It was easy enough to dislike Bakugou, the bundle of arrogance and anger and  _hate_ as he was. Easier, if you were Izuku Midoriya, or had seen his life through his eyes like Bilbo had. 

It was not that Bilbo hadn't thought of taking preemptive action before. Several times he had seriously entertained the idea of a nasty surprise or two for the kid – and never should you underestimate a witty hobbit's capacity for ironic mischief! He'd stopped himself every time, because he'd kept telling himself Bakugou probably wasn't  _that_ bad, was he?

But now, in light of recent event... yes, Bilbo would have to do something. But what? That's the question worth a troll's hoard.

Bakugou wasn't a hobbit and therefore harmless things that would get a rise out of, say, the Sackville-Bagginses wouldn't necessarily work on him. In fact Bilbo wasn't sure if getting a rise out of him was a good idea either. Bakugou was Izuku's classmate still, and would be able to pick on him when Bilbo wasn't there to soften the blow. No, he couldn't afford to make this angry boy angrier out of spite, and not just because spite begat more spite.

But could Bilbo teach this unruly child a lesson of any sort? Help him become a better person? Nudge him in the right direction? Hint without telling outright _what you did is wrong_?

That would indeed be the best outcome. 

Bilbo had been there, had seen the boy with his own eyes (metaphorically speaking). Bakugou wasn't a generic 'evil' or 'nastiness'. He wasn't an orc or a goblin or a troll that hid in the shadow and terrorize honest folks. He wasn't even of the kind of two-faced unpleasantness among the nastier specimens of hobbits. What he was, was a boy with a head too swelled by his own remarkable talent, who needed guidance as much as censure.

But Bilbo wasn't experienced in handling fauntlings such as Bakugou. In this world, he didn't even have the authority of an adult. In this world, he could only do what Izuku could: respond, react, _resist_.

At any rate, anything that had to do with Bakugou, be it censure or reform, would need more time and effort than Bilbo could afford. He quietly settled the matter down at a corner of his mind, took a deep breath and read on.

The rest of the week, thankfully, was quite a lot more positive for Izuku. He'd survived his first classes with this Mister Aizawa ( _ I don't agree with him on all things _ , he'd written,  _ but he's alright. Weird, but alright _ ); Katsuki wasn't after him any more (thank Eru for small favors); his classmates were mostly nice people (though he was working up the courage to actually make new friends). Things were looking up at last.

That giddy excitement in the way he described Ochako didn't escape Bilbo either: like a fauntling having just moved house and realizing the next-door neighbor was friendly and maybe  _ into  _ in him somehow. Bilbo raised a brow –  _ lad's at  _ that  _ age _ , he thought – and stuffed an invisible chaperon hat into his metaphorical pocket.

_ “Oh, and I almost forgot: We're supposed to finish whatever customization we'd like for our hero costume by homeroom tomorrow.”  _ the note said. “ _ If it happens to be switch day, could you help me with that? I'm already perfectly happy with the design, Mom and I both, so all you need to do is hand in the paperwork!”  _

Bilbo gave a nod, glancing at the table. A filled form was secured under an All Might paper weight

_ “That, and Hatsume has been poking me over and over about some kind of 'data collection' for a 'gauntlet' of a sort. Think you might know anything about it?” _

_Oh. Eru._

Bilbo had been so distracted by Shouto Todoroki the other day, he'd forgotten to tell Izuku all about the glove! It was lying in a bundle now in the bottom drawer of Izuku's desk, gathering dust figuratively if not literally, along with what observations ( _data_ , he reminded himself) he'd written down that night.

At once Bilbo knew what he was to do before the morning came to a close. As quickly as he could Bilbo gathered all the paperwork, all the documents, all the design and of course the glove itself, lying on top of the pile of note-paper Izuku left there on the eve of his inheritance.

His eyes flitted across the design Izuku made before the exam: that hypothetical gauntlet the boy had thought up, connected to a cumbersome box by a tube meant to dispense marbles to be flicked. The design Bilbo had thought impractical and more than a bit of wishful thinking on Izuku's part.

Then Bilbo's gaze stopped right there.

 _On second thoughts... the mad artificer girl might actually_ like _this!_

Bilbo clipped Izuku's crude drawing together with the rest of the observations, and stuffed it into his bag.

***

_ “... It pains me that we are here feasting all day and hearing wondrous songs all night while you are there suffering – of which sort I hope is curable still, by good food and jolly music and pleasant company...” _

The notebook froze in Izuku's hands. Bilbo had written more than he usually did, and that meant a  _ lot _ : the hobbit was not known for his brevity. But it was the good kind of long-windedness: Bilbo had detailed how he'd met the last surviving ranger, how he'd asked for their names, and how – the kind hobbit had repeated this about a dozen times in his neat, wiry writing – it wasn't Izuku's fault. Because what else could a little boy on a bad day have done against  _ three armored trolls  _ of all things?

Izuku laid the journal on his side, took a deep breath and looked around.

It was a very pleasant room, small and accommodating, its walls painted white and decorated with flowers and leaves and stars. There was food at his bedside: a jug of water next to a wooden cup polished to a shine, a plate piled with a fluffy white loaf surrounded by grapes and sliced apple, and a white napkin folded into a triangle. 

Izuku wasn't especially hungry: U.A.'s cafeteria lived up to the school's name, and recently Mother had been just about over-feeding him already. But he was a child in many ways, and eating was just something a child _did_. So Izuku swept the plate and washed everything down with half the jug. He closed his eyes as crisp, cold water flowed down his throat _._ Then he picked up the journal again and read the closing lines.

_ “I have taken liberty to attempt friendship of a sort with Thorin Oakenshield,”  _ they said.  _ “You do not need to speak to him overly much if your resentment towards his conduct remains strong (as I suspect it might be), but the least I should ask of you is not to antagonize him any more than is strictly necessary.” _

“Thorin Oakenshield, huh?” he said to himself.

The last week had really passed by in a hurricane of events, such that Thorin Oakenshield's conduct or lack thereof was sitting at the bottom of Izuku's 'to-mull-over' pile. Now that he was reminded of that unhappy business, Izuku wasn't entirely sure  _ exactly  _ how he was supposed to feel about the dwarf-lord.

Had he done the right thing, keeping his kin safe before everything else?

Was Izuku supposed to hate him, that his cowardice led to truly brave people perishing?

Was the boy even qualified to pass judgement? If he was in the same shoes, would he have done the same? If he was to choose between loved one and stranger, would he have done the same?

Then Mr. Aizawa's words washed over him like a cold ocean wave.

 _Suicidal heroes don't do anyone any good_.

His memory of how he had responded to Mr. Aizawa's words was rather hazy. He did recall he was so much more _emotional_ than was typical of him. So much so the entire session felt like a dream too vivid and a little embarrassing, even. Shouting and crying in front of a teacher because of a disagreement!

_A hero's prime directive is to save lives, and this includes their own if they can._

As Izuku turned the matter over and over, like a bitter tea whose aftertaste grew mild and sweet, Mr. Aizawa's comments made more sense the more thought he put into it.

 _Not every hero need to single-handedly save the day every time_.

Then Izuku made the wisest decision he had in a while: He would take care of himself first. He set the matters down, the both of them, and give himself a holiday. If, or when, he was to face Thorin Oakenshield again, and if the unlucky topic somehow got brought up, Izuku would not go out of his way to explode at him.

Izuku yawned, stretched, and scrambled out of the bed and into the corridor beyond. Sunlight was shining through the bough above, pricking at his eyes and gilding the pillars golden. He heard water flowing in the distance, its pattering mingling with the soft melody that seemed to emanate from the leaves above and beyond.

It was the first time in so long Izuku felt so  _rested_ . His head felt light and his heart lighter. His steps took him along a cobbled path under the shade of the wooded veranda crowned by leaves and vines. He gazed and wowed and stretched open his eyes as far as he could, committing to memory the butterflies and birds and flowers and grass whose verdure might well be eternal. 

Then there were other sights, too: figures tall and leaf-eared, whose face glowed with a glimmer he could not put down to words.  _They are elves, of course_ , Bilbo had written. They walked and paraded and jaunted around the place, some in robes of blue and white, other in shining mail and tall helmets; some were happy and carefree, others melancholic and downcast; always so bright and so  _literally_ tall to behold. Some of them cast curious looks at Izuku, others smiled, grinned or cajoled, others still passed by without even a word of acknowledgement. Being in the form of a hobbit made Izuku felt even smaller, lesser and more insignificant. 

What he did not feel was _being threatened_ . 

So he waved back, smiled and grinned and said “Hello” and “Hi” and “Nice morning isn't it?” to those who would hear it. By the time he was through that covered walkway he'd had more “Good morning to you!” than he'd normally have in a month. 

Now he was standing before a vast courtyard, flanked on each side by an elegant hall of stone and wood. In the middle there was an oak tree very old, grown upon a well-groomed patch of grass. The tree was tall as a townhouse, its bough was very wide, and the grass underneath was like a soft bed unto itself. Izuku invited himself over sat down, and rested his head against the trunk. Deep down he was still a child, and a child should like his recesses plenty and often.

But Izuku was not just a child. He had been an observer – had been that way before he'd even showed up in Bilbo's guise nine years ago – and Rivendell was full of things worth observing. He was drinking in everything: The blue sky, the bird's nest between the branches above, the blade of tall grass rising above the rest, the intricate carving of leaves and stars on the pillars. In fact Izuku's gaze was tracing the lines etched on a pillar that looked like many flowers intertwined when suddenly a dwarf-head popped into his view.

“Hullo, Master Baggins!” he heard.

“Oh!” Izuku exclaimed and shot up. “Sorry, I didn't see you there.”

“No, no, it's perfectly fine, my good sir.” It was Ori, a dwarf with a small beard and smaller form – not much broader than Bilbo was, and just a little taller. “Shall I join you, Master Baggins?” he said with a bow even more polite than most Japanese of Izuku's day and age.

“Sure,” said Izuku, and inched to the side. “Um... where's everyone else?”

“Wandering all over the place doing what they fancy!” Ori said. “By Mahal, there's more than enough to occupy a dwarf here! Books and games and stories of all sorts, and they craft beautiful things too, those elves (except never as beautiful as those craft of our own I daresay)!” He paused for a little, and there was this hesitation in him that reminded Izuku quite sharply of himself. “And I, well, I've been look for you, Master Baggins.”

 _Oh?_ “Why me?” Izuku asked, his fingers growing taut at the words.

“Oh, relax, Mister Baggins, I'm not going to ask you for a story that you don't want to tell!” said Ori. “I would like to ask for a favor – a considerable one.” He flustered for a bit. “Which you may of course turn down, my good sir, if it is too much of a bother-”

Ori was looking at him intently, swallowed hard, and continued. “Can you teach me to be a story-teller as good as you are?”

At that moment Izuku thought he was looking at himself in a mirror. Had it not been Bilbo who'd met All Might that day, had it been Izuku who'd faced his idol, he would have looked to All Might with those expectant eyes and asked “ _Can I be a hero too?_ ” The thought that someone would turn the table around on him had never, not once, crossed his mind.

“But again, w-why me?” said Izuku, at once not knowing how to think. “I... I mean, I'm not even good at this...”

“But you are, Mister Baggins!” cried Ori excitedly. “You have told us all those wondrous tales of incredible heroes and amazing spells and clever crafts! I'm quite sure if you told them of the woman who can grow huge and shrink back in size at a snap of a finger, or the man who can control the living stone itself, or the steel birds that drink liquid flame and spit death, well, even the elves would widen their eyes and slap their thighs and say 'We never heard of that before'!”

Izuku hadn't been mulling overly much over that matter for the last week or so, for the same reason his mind wasn't in Arda at all. Now that he got to thinking again, Bilbo spinning tales that were essentially thinly-veiled description of the modern, hero-dominated Japan was not exactly the wisest things he could have done. What if the dwarves didn't believe him? Or worse, what if they _believed_ him? Or worst, what if they actually asked him _where_ such stories came from? How would Bilbo answer then?

As it happened, now Izuku had to do Bilbo's share of explanation. “But... I could be making it all up,” he said. “My mind can be a pretty, uh... scary place at times? My thoughts like to wander to crazy places at night?”

“Does it matter?” said Ori. “I heard Gandalf himself say 'good stories deserve embellishment' the other day! And, well, my good sir, as a scribe that's what I do. Make sure tales do not vanish and instead become history and legend and myths even!” His voice hastened and his pitch rose into a squeak. “I won't ask questions as to where and how you learnt the tales you told, Mister Baggins!

“You won't?” asked Izuku with a sharp stare. “Not even if my stories sound really... out there?”

“Of course I won't! It's terrible terrible etiquette to ask peddlers of tales where they got theirs, after all!” he said. “I would pay you all I can, in gold and silver and mithril if Mahal should ever let me have it! If it becomes a book I'll even name it after you, my good sir: how does _Tales of the Road – Musings by Messers Baggins and Ori_ sound to your ears? Or any other name as you should like! As long as you would, let me record down your treasure trove of extraordinary stories for posterity, anything goes!”

Izuku thought, and thought, and thought some more. The desire for peace of the mind and safety of his and Bilbo's secret was overwhelming, certainly.

But then his mind wandered to that moment Bilbo asked All Might on his behalf, and thought of how he would have felt had All Might told him 'no, you can't be a hero'. He wouldn't be quite crushed, no (because nowadays his admiration for All Might was hardly the only thing that kept him trucking along day after day), but he would have been very disappointed, very hurt, very sad.

Not to mention All Might actually had a solid reason to tell him no. Izuku had no reason to refuse this excited dwarf but for paranoia that probably wouldn't apply. _No questions asked, right?_

In fact, he was just about to say _yes, sure, ask away_ when another uncomfortable question reared its ugly head. “But Mister Ori, isn't it a little too early to ask?” said Izuku. “We have a dragon to tend to at the end of the day, don't we?”

He had never truly thought about the real consequence of Bilbo going on an adventure, not with all his mind, given the whole mess over the last couple weeks with his own life. But he had indeed heard something like a _dragon_ , and the thought had made his hair stand on ends.

“Well, sure, but let's face it; I wouldn't have undertaken this quest if I had thought we have not a chance, would I?” said Ori with a grin. “I don't know what Thorin thinks, obviously, but I should like to think Gandalf wouldn't let us down. In the tales passed down in our crag in the Grey Mountains for hundreds of years now, wizards like him don't show up very often, but when they do, well, that would make for the stuff of legends!”

“He let us fight alone against trolls,” Izuku pointed out. _Apologize to Bilbo or no, he could have saved lives had he been around_.

“Certainly, Mister Baggins, but you have certainly heard the saying ' _Wizards are never late, nor are they early_ ', have you?”

Izuku _really_ thought it was an excuse rather than anything else. “If you say so,” he said nonchalantly.

“Besides, it pays well to make arrangements early!” Ori said. “We dwarves as a rule should like to make contracts properly, and preferably a long time before the deed. Late and unclear terms of contracts invite tragedies, as had once happened long before my great grandfather's great grandfather was born!”

He paused for a moment and then resumed, and Izuku was quite sure he'd pulled out an invisible metaphorical lawyer's hat from nowhere. “Since I am not quite with the authority for contracts yet – no considerations, things of proper value to exchange, mind you – I would ask not for a proper business-paper with signatures and witnesses and all the legal mumblejumbles. But if I should have your word, Master Baggins, because you do seem to keep yours.” His expression turned sour for just a second. “Unlike certain _people-_ ”

“I guess I can do that, sure,” Izuku said, and his smile was very bright. “And no, I don't think I want any cash payment. Just... glad to be of help, really!”

The dwarf's eyes rolled and rolled. “Mister Baggins,” he said. “You could not be more un-dwarf-like if you tried!”

“Maybe that's because I'm not one last time I checked?” said Izuku, his grin only growing broader and gladder.

“That _is_ a fair point, my good sir,” said Ori. “Still, dwarven law dictates that for something of value to be given, something else of good value must be given back in good faith-”

“How about we make it this way?” said Izuku “Tell me about yourself, Mister Ori, and I'll tell you something you want. You have two brothers, and you're a scribe, and... uh, that's all I know about you, really. It's not very... nice? That I know so little of you though we've been in a _fight_ together; it's kind of-” he scratched his head sheepishly. “Kind of embarrassing for me, really.”

“Well,” said Ori with a beam, “I think I can do that.”

***

“So All Might's class is this afternoon?”

The train's wheels grinding on iron might be noisy, but it did nothing to hide the ring in Mei's voice.

Bilbo was groaning inside. Sitting on a train bench stuck between two teenage girls as chatty as fauntlings on Yuletide, in hindsight, was not one of Bilbo Baggins' most respectable moments. Not, at any rate, when they were trying their darnedest to make fun at his (well, at Izuku's) expense. Suddenly _not_ getting stuck without a seat on Tokyo's harrowing public transport wasn't exactly a blessing any more.

“Yeah!” Ochako said. “I still can't believe it, a hundred yen he teaches as well as he fights crime!” She lowered her voice and shot a narrow-eyed look at Bilbo, her brows quirking. “Oh, and just so you know, _certain people_ are more excited than the rest...”

There was a tiny frown on Bilbo's face. Izuku revealing his blatant All Might fanboyism to the girls was neither very wise nor very well-thought, and now Bilbo was paying the price.

“Friends, fellows, favored companions, I'm sitting right here,” Bilbo said, tapping his knee. “I can't see anything wrong with respecting the greatest hero in the world, idolize, even! Nor should I think anyone might ever come close to his reputation any time soon!”

Ochako was giggling, her hand covering her mouth. Mei was _winking_.

“Aw, Midoriya, we all know with your quirk and my babies you'll catch up even to his impossibly high standard soon enough~”

The corner of Bilbo's left eyes caught Ochako's cheek puffing a bit, while his right found Mei inching just a little too close to him for comfort.

Bilbo sighed, and promptly put on his invisible chaperon cap.

“I shall reserve my comments on the veracity of your claim,” he said as ceremoniously as he could as a grandson of the Old Took, complete with a harrumph, “until with my own eyes I so behold.”

“'Veracity'? 'Behold'?” Mei looked positively scandalized. “You... you're saying that with a straight face?”

“Yes,” said Bilbo, and his face was indeed straight if he would look at a mirror.

Ochako's brows jittered. “Are you sure you aren't-” she said, “Iida disguised as Midoriya? Or Todoroki wearing a green-hair mask?”

Bilbo's expression hardened. “Yes.”

Mei pouted. “Killjoy,” she said.

Ochako nodded. “Killjoy,” she said.

“You're welcome,” said Bilbo.

The girls withdrew back to their respective seats, and Bilbo managed a sigh of relief. The peace lasted precisely three seconds before he felt a blunt jab in his right side.

“So, so, so,” Mei said, thrusting her open hand in front of Bilbo's face. “How about that data?”

Bilbo huffed. _Thought you'd say that._ “You've been pestering me for the past week for it,” he said. “I was starting to think I would have less chance of getting away from you than from certain annoying relatives!”

“Of course you aren't going _anywhere_ ,” said Mei with a mock-threatening tone. “Now be a good hero trainee and hand it over!”

Bilbo zipped open his backpack on his lap, and produced the document neatly fastened with a paper-clip. The hobbit was proud of his handiwork for all of a second. Mei's face turned into something of a scowl the moment she looked upon the stack of paper.

“What, no soft copies?” she said. “What age are you living in, Midoriya?” She took over the stack anyway, and began flipping sheet after sheet. “At least your handwriting is nice...”

At once Bilbo did not know for whom the faint praise was meant, himself or Izuku. He silently took it in for the both of them.

“Well, I've done my part for the glove I do think,” he said. “Is there any chance it can be improved?”

Mei gasped indignantly. “What do you take me for? Some talentless engineering hacks working for black-market support companies?” she cried. “Of course it can!”

Now Ochako was leaning over him to peek at the paperwork. Her round eyes turned rounder and wider, her pupil moved faster than Bilbo thought she could. With much difficulty and awkwardness he pressed himself closer against the back-rest of his seat.

Her eyes flashed. “Wait, what is this?”

“Late-night scribbling fueled by a lot of tea,” said Bilbo half-truthfully. “I made it before the exam, mind you. Don't mind the similarities between my design and yours – great ideas are like to coincide, after all.”

“Sure,” said Mei. She pored over the sheet for a while. And then her left eye narrowed. “Huh? You said you wrote this before the exam, right?” Suspicion filled her voice. “But you wrote here, _Must ask All Might_? Midoriya, you _knew_ All Might? Before the exam?”

Bilbo swallowed his tongue. “Uh...” he said. If he had been able to dig himself a hole, or gag himself with a pair of woolen socks or two, he would gladly do so. How could he have been so _daft_?

“Oh, on that note,” said Ochako, her eyes twinkling curiously too “Isn't your quirk kind of like All Might's?”

For a second Bilbo did not know what exactly to say, but just a second. Fortunately for all concerned, Bilbo had never _not_ been a fine story-teller and fabricator of not exactly truthful yet entirely plausible tales. He gathered his courage in a breath, blinked to his left and winked to his right.

“Of course my quirk is kind of like All Might's,” he said. “Why else would you think I found him so admirable?”

The two girls glanced at each other, then stared at Bilbo.

“You know my quirk breaks my bones or snaps my ligaments if I use it too hard,” Bilbo said matter-of-factly – it was, after all, a fact. “It's not quite an asset when you think about it; too much of a feast is pleasing in the least, like my father used to say. I spent a good while not using at all; until All Might made me change my mind.”

“Quite obvious, isn't it?” He paused, breathed in, breathed out, and began again. “He's got a quirk that contains so much _power_ , and not only could he control it so flawlessly, he became the greatest hero of them all. It's great. Amazing. Wonderful. Inspiring. At least that's what I thought as a wee child.”

Now Bilbo's voice became more lively and less strained. He was, for all intents and purposes, telling something quite close to the truth.

“I looked to him; watched his videos for hours after hours and told myself, _All Might is so cool_ ,” he said. “I thought if I'm good enough doing what I do, well, I'd get to meet him, not like an admirer... but like a student. A learner. A plyer of the same craft. A few broken or dislodged bones is a fair price, I do think.”

Uraraka's eyes looked a little misty. “So that's why you've been so excited!” she exclaimed.

Mei just looked slightly bored. “ _Boys_ ,” she said, and returned to the schematics. “But yeah, the concept ain't half bad.” Her voice sounded a little absent-minded. “Pretty sure I have enough material to add some extra punch to this baby...”

Bilbo found out Izuku wasn't quite the only one around to mumble out of habit. Mei was doing exactly that: her lips were moving without sound, and once every so often they would curl into a smile of a sort. For five minutes straight they never stopped, nor did her eyes leave the stack of drawings.

At long last the great inventor snapped a finger. “All right, I've got a pretty good idea for an _amazing_ upgrade,” she said, more tentatively than her normal self. “But, hmm... you'll have to wear it over your current costume. Got a drawing there I can use for design and measurements and all that?”

Bilbo's fingers fumbled across the touchscreen. He stopped at a relatively old picture of a green jumpsuit and a face-mask bearing plumes like rabbit-ears. Izuku had written him how this was to be his hero costume _months_ back. It was endearing in a _weird_ way: the outfit was whimsical and unassuming, even; precisely the stuff of children's book and not at all arms and armor fit for a legend. All the same it was distinctly _Izuku_ and nobody could persuade Bilbo otherwise.

He fidgeted for another moment: forwarding a picture over messenger was both simpler and more complicated than the old-fashioned way of ink, letter-paper and a friendly post-hobbit. How the children of Izuku's generation could do it with one hand was beyond him: perhaps Bilbo had grown old, and old hobbits weren't supposed to learn new things any more.

Only when Mei's phone beeped in her blazer pocket did Bilbo sigh in relief. _Well, I am not half bad at this_.

“Ah, there you go,” she said, the crosshair lines in her eyes grew a mite thicker. “So you  _ can  _ use technology after all!”

Ochako had been rolling her round eyes for the last moment, and now she threw Mei a very stern stare. “Um... Hatsume?” she said. “You  _ are  _ aware the suit should have been finished now, right? And tampering with it isn't exactly... a smart idea. You know right?”

Mei waved her hand. “Pshaw,” she said. “Hero equipment is made to be tampered with!” and then buried her nose in the paperwork before either Bilbo or Ochako could voice further objection.

Five minutes and a dozen glances from Ochako to Bilbo that said 'are you sure this is a good idea' later, he heard a finger-snap.

“Perfect!” Mei said. “Now if you give me a couple hour-” she started scratching words upon words on her screen. “I can actually cook up a surprise-baby.”

“Well, as long as it doesn't blow up,” said Bilbo.

“No it won't!” said Mei. “But nearly as good! Rest assured, Midoriya, you'll be the most fantabulous lab rat of them all!”

“Lab rat?” Bilbo gulped. “I don't think I should like the sound of that!”

Next to him, Ochako's 'are you sure this is a good idea' only intensified. “Neither do I!” she said indignantly.

Mei crossed her arms. “Is it too much,” she said with something quite like a laugh, “for an inventor to ask her friends to _trust_ her credentials nowadays?”

 _But_ , thought Bilbo quietly, _you have no credentials that I know of!_

_Well, except that of a friend._

***

The class rang out in a chorus of 'wow' when All Might made his appearance with an “I AM HERE!” that echoed all over the classroom (even though he was only walking into the classroom like every normal person ever). “That's so Silver Age!” someone cried.

Bilbo looked left and then right at Izuku's classmates. Mostly everyone in the now-noisy classroom was all too thrilled, to varying degree. Bakugou most of all: he was clenching his fists, and there was a sharp, toothy, murderous grin on his face that made Bilbo deeply uncomfortable.

Then there were those few who didn't seem to think very much of the exercise at all. Shouto Todoroki was sitting cross-arm and reclining boredly against the back-rest of his seat, like the exercise was meant to be a chore and not at all exciting. A girl with spiky ponytails (the name was Momo Yaoyorozu, Bilbo recalled from the notes) was sitting upright, seemingly lost in her own thoughts. There was another girl with features that reminded Bilbo of frogs (in an alright if not cute way) and glassy round eyes, who was keeping said eyes peeled at All Might's posture.

Bilbo found himself wowed as well: there was something incredibly glorious about the way All Might the hero carried himself in his official capacity. Now he was not the bumbling, wise-cracking, whimsical, muscular Big Folk who laughed too much for his own good. No, sir, his posturing hearkened to that age of myth where heroes and elf-friends stood tall against the Shadow, only that his chief weapon was a smile rather than an oath tragic and fell.

Bilbo had half a mind to record down every single word All Might would say. It wasn't going to be very hard: All Might's instruction boiled down to “We're going to have a combat test today” - of which Izuku had already informed him, and “Your hero costume is ready, go get them” - for which Bilbo thought Izuku should thank him, submitting the paperwork on time and all.

In fact, they were just about to head down to the training ground when there came a very loud knock at the door.

“Yes?” said All Might.

At once the door slid open. Behind it stood a familiar shade of pink hair. Into the classroom dashed Mei Hatsume, smiling like she owned the world, carrying under her arm a large cardboard box on whose sides the words 「最後」and 「緑谷」were scribbled.

“Delivery for Midoriya Izuku!” she announced with a holler. “May I?”

The amount of energy she exuded made even the Number One Hero raise a brow.

“Now, err...” he said, glancing at his phone. “Young Hatsume from Class 1-H, am I right? I'm not one hundred percent sure you can-”

“I've ran it through with Power Loader!” she said, and produced some very official-looking paperwork from her pocket, red seals and all. She looked down the class, her eyes meeting Bilbo's in the blink of an eye. “Ah, there you are.” She walked down and set the box down in front of Bilbo with a tiny _thunk_.

Now All Might looked up from his phone screen. “Hmm... yes, he's just sent me a message about that,” he said. “But I am not so sure-”

“He said it's a very good idea and works well with Midoriya's suit, sir,” she said, and added, “uh, mostly because it doesn't blow up. For now.”

Bilbo _really_ didn't like the sound of that. “Right,” he said. “If it starts blowing smoke-rings all by itself, I'll chuck it in the other team's direction.”

“Have faith, will you?” Mei's hands were at her hip. “If it catches fire I'll owe you a year of lunch money!”

Bilbo's ears caught a muffled, indignant “ _What is it with Midoriya getting all the favors from the girls?_ ” from behind him.

Mei didn't pay it any mind. “Sent you the instruction via the group chat!” she exclaimed. “Good luck and all that, gotta bolt!”

Then she gave All Might a very quick bow, and dashed off like a wraith was upon her.

“I swear a most solemn oath to every deity and divinity, high in light or yet unborn, that I did not meant for this,” Bilbo said, half to himself and half to the teacher.

Meanwhile All Might was still looking over the paperwork, which apparently included some schematics (hopefully with instructions for the lay-person) with red stamp on it.

“Everything's in order, huh,” he said. His voice was both slightly doubtful and slightly excited. “Young Midoriya, would _you_ like to try using this glove? I've heard some very good things about young Hatsume... and a few not very good one.”

“I _have_ tried using it, sir. Well, a version of it at any rate,” said Bilbo, “before Hatsume modified it, that is. As long as she doesn't attach firework to it-”

“I don't think she has, no,” said All Might, raising his brow sharply at a corner of the schematic. “It is your choice, young Midoriya. If you _do_ use it, however... I must forbid you from throwing things _directly_ at your classmates.” His voice was grave and sterner than Bilbo recalled. Then it fell to a quiet, but far from inaudible, mutter. “Seriously, how did that girl think it's a good idea putting _this_ on equipment for a hero?”

Bilbo swallowed hard. “I'll take it then, sir,” he steeled his voice and said.

Just then his phone buzzed in his pocket.

“' _Entrance Exam Arena Trap Survivors' sent you a message.”_

A dozen schematics, annotated by so many numbers, words and _emojis_ were now literally at Bilbo's fingertip.

 

 _“Tell me how it works out!”_ the final slide said, and Bilbo could almost hear Mei's voice, excited as she always was. Almost.

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes and Fanon:
> 
> \- On the "tragedy caused by late and unclear terms of contract": Ori is refering to the Battle of the Thousand Caves in the First Age where the dwarves of Nogrod, hired by the Elvenking Elu Thingol to set the Silmaril that had come into his possession into a necklace, instead desired said Silmaril itself. Their quarrel with and subsequent slaying of the Elvenking would set off the chain of event that would result in the destruction of the Sindarin realm of Doriath and several other tragedies of the late First Age (Including two Kinslayings by the Sons of Feanor and the loss of the Silmarils). 
> 
> For such a major event, I think it appropriate that *some* form of such tale would live on in the folk wisdom of the dwarves, least as a cautionary tale like, "And that, children, is why we always make proper contracts". I also subscribe to the theory that it is this event, rather than Peter Jackson's invented "dwarves didn't give me back my wife's necklace, boo-hoo", that really made Thranduil dislike dwarves. He might even have been there in Doriath when everything went down around him! 
> 
> \- Bilbo is making an unconscious comparison between All Might and the Sons of Feanor - or whichever form of that story that had passed down to the hobbits of that Age by oral tradition.


	13. Baruk Khazad, 戦闘訓練

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The calm before the storm...

**CHAPTER 12**

_**BARUK KHAZAD,** _ _**戦闘訓練** _

 

Rare was the day Dori did not have to look out for his two brothers – though he did not show it often. Rarer was the day Dori did not begin the day with a “what's the point?” - though he showed it all the less. Somewhere inside the refugee-dwarf turned guards-dwarf turned newly-rich connoisseur of finer things in life, there was a frightened child having to take care of two other frightened children in a world unfriendly to dwarves and more unfriendly to the have-nots.

It had been easy for Durin's folk to point fingers at the fall of their fortune. The dwarves had never had a shortage of wrongers.

So when Dori woke up unusually late that day and found neither Nori nor Ori in their room, his first reaction was to panic. By Mahal, they were lodging with _elves_ and that meant oath-breakers, thieves and enemy of dwarves in the language of those children, wispy-bearded and twiggy-limbed, huddled among themselves in a home not their own.

Off the bed leaped Dori, ignoring the delicious-smelling breakfast across the table. He ran out of the sun-filled door and along the covered veranda, eyes darting about. Rivendell stretched out before his eyes: the green grass, the blue sky, the aroma of flowers and the sound of flowing water. It was all enormously calming and peaceful, and might have been much better were it not for the occasional elves who passed by.

Dori could swear they were wagging their fingers at him behind his back, like elves were wont to. He ignored them the way he'd ignored the older, stronger dwarrow-lads back in their days in the alley: never let them know he was looking, never speak a word unless it would be unwise to keep silent, and never throw the first punch. At least _these_ elves took a hint, and didn't get within fifteen feet of himself.

His footsteps took him to the large courtyard under the shade of an oak tree very old. Dori's worries at once deflated like a balloon after a day of festivities: his youngest brother was sitting under the tree, next to their burglar-hobbit. He was talking and gesturing in the way only Ori knew, and Bilbo was sitting, chin on his palm, listening to him like it was something particularly profound.

It was so peaceful, almost.

 _False alarum, thy name art Dori_.

“-didn't know our Ma or Pa, really,” he heard Ori say. “Dori took care of the lot of us for the most part. Worked in the mine up there in the Blue for a time till he'd saved enough for this coat of long mail – rusty and smelly, mind you – and signed up for a caravan running 'cross the length of the mountain range!”

“I spy,” he said, and stepped out in front of him, “someone dallying tales about a certain someone-” He tried hard not to laugh. “-without that certain someone's leave.”

Ori shot up with a start.

“Oh, it's only you, brother,” he said, rubbing his chest and sat back down.

“H-hi,” said the burglar with a sharp breath. “Didn't expect to see you, Master Dori.”

“Well, where else would I be? Gotta look after the little brothers, that's what I do,” said Dori. “Where's Nori?” he asked.

“Prolly off and about looking for things to pil- pick up, I mean,” said Ori. “You know him.”

Master Baggins narrowed his eyes. “Pick up?” he asked. “As in, _stealing_?”

Ori waggled his five fingers. “Not very often,” he said, “and only from those who have plenty to spare!”

“Funny you should ask that,” said Dori. “You're the master burglar!”

The hobbit buried his hand in his head. “Remind me I need more practice,” he said, which earned him a pat on the back and a “You're all right,” from Ori.

Dori found himself smiling, and hunched down next to his brother under the tree. “So, hoarding the story-teller, are we?” he said.

Ori nodded. “He has enough in him to fill a few books – a library if you want to stretch!” he said, and gestured to his notebook. “I should like to grab a piece of that before some enterprising louts from the Grey Mountains or elsewhere got to him first! All that he asks for is something about myself in return!”

Dori didn't know if the hobbit was flattered or indignant, treated like a prized object (unintentionally). His little brother could be so uncouth at times. “Really now?”

The hobbit showed neither. “Master Dori, isn't it?” he said. “You could tell me something about yourself, too!”

That... was not something Dori had expected to hear. “For what, my dear chap? To write it down? No thanks, I'm not deserving enough of a dwarf for anything alike a biographer!”

To be more accurate, that was something Dori had _wanted_ to hear, but he'd thought he wouldn't get to hear for the rest of his life – not, at any rate, ere Erebor was reclaimed and a large share of its old wealth became his.

“It's not about _deserving_ ,” said the hobbit. “I try to keep notes on everyone I meet.”

“What for?”

“It's, ah-” he scratched his scalp. “It's just something I do. Diversion; entertainment, that kind of thing.”

“I see,” said Dori, at once not sure how he was supposed to feel about the whole business.

That was, of course, until he heard heavy footsteps and the sound of many wooden sticks scraping against the cobblestone in the distance.

Into view came Dwalin, sunlight flaring off his bald head. He was dragging many wooden sticks in his arms and slightly fewer round wooden boards on his back.

“Ah, there you are, Dori. And Ori and Master Baggins, too!” said him. “It's time for a jolly spar! Show these elves the diligence and hard work of dwarves in arms, is what it is!”

***

Todoroki Shouto was very, very bored.

It was not his fault, or anyone's for that matter. The difference between his level and the rest of the class was simply too great.

Didn't help there wasn't anything special about the exercise either. All Might's debut as a teacher was as disappointing as disappointing went. The old bastard would laugh if he'd seen the mockery of a combat training going on under his here.

In theory, well, Shouto could see the sense in such basic training. A little.

The old man wasn't the one to teach Shouto that quirks didn't mean a lot outside context. That much Shouto found out himself. He wasn't the only boy in the world to pore over video clips of heroes doing heroics in the world. Shouto could even vaguely remember a time, his face free from scars and his mother not absent, when he watched hero on TV for fun. Because he was a little boy once, and what little boy didn't find heroes to be the coolest thing ever?

Funny, how much bitterness had climbed into that pastime of his.

At some point watching heroes on television stopped being about _cool_. He analyzed heroes, like a machine: how this hero wasted an opportunity or that hero risked a hostage's life, how that uppercut was too showy and not enough punch, how that kick did more harm than good... how he would have done things differently. And Shouto had to _be_ so critical: the old man got creative in training often. He might be a bastard through and through, but never say he didn't know how to make demanding training exercises.

All Might's bellow snapped him back to the present.

“Young Bakugou and young Uraraka!” he hollered. “Prepare yourselves! Exercise starts in Five! Minutes!”

The two aforenamed left the waiting room. Bakugou with a growl in his throat and Uraraka with a shudder to her steps. Not the best of teams, Shouto thought. Given Bakugou's previous conduct, he would give them one minute, top, before Bakugou would run off doing his own thing and leave Uraraka easy picking.

Meanwhile, on one of the screens far in the corner the two 'villains' were still preparing. No, scratch that; Iida was pacing around in a circle and Midoriya was finding his phone too alluring for some reason. Barely better teamwork than the other team, really.

_Dear me, this is gonna be a fiasco._

Back in the waiting room, Kaminari was starting something of a betting pool. “A hundred yen Bakugou sweeps!” he said. There weren't any takers until Kirishima slipped in a two hundred.

“You know what, you take Midoriya,” he said. “I'll take Bakugou.”

Mineta was off mumbling something about Uraraka's hero costume and _clothing damage_ when Asui shut him up with a neck-snapping tongue-slap.

Yaoyorozu – the second student getting in through recommendation – was stealing glances at the paperwork All Might had placed on the table. Like they were something infinitely more interesting than the mere drawings they actually were.

The rest of the class were scattered in small clumps: obviously not knowing one another enough to chatter, and not exactly comfortable with their own ability in the face of their exercises. Again, not their fault. The difference between their level and his was simply too great.

Shouto folded his arm and leaned back against the wall. And then something on that screen began to move.

_Oh?_

Midoriya had stood up at last.

_Show me what you can do other than run your mouth off, Midoriya._

A smirk came to Shouto's lips, more villainous than he should like.

_Bastard old man, what have you made me into?_

***

Kili had never quite understood the hostility against elves.

For the one, their women were beautiful (and so were their men, but Kili would rather not talk about that), their crafts were exquisite (all four corners of the world would marvel at the day dwarves and elves made _beautiful things_ together), and but for a select few they weren't too unpleasant (then again he wasn't even born when Erebor was lost, so what did he know?).

For the other, they had treated them well for the past few days. Way better, at any rate, than he would have expected from a group of ancient folks who rarely were spoken of very well in the company of Durin's folk of late.

Then again, Master Boggins' donation of half his share of treasure might have had something to do with it – in which case their whole treatment was more or less a stay at an overpriced in. But Kili would like to think himself a positive and optimistic dwarf even on rainy days.

At any rate, on this particularly fine day he woke up to the smell of pot roasts and thick gravy, because Ori had protested the lack of meat for the last few days. He woke up to golden sunlight and a gentle breeze through the open window. He woke up to a distinct lack of his brother's presence, because each of them had their own small guestroom (“We haven't been treated like princes for ages, I was beginning to forget we sort of are!” Fili had said).

He woke up to the sound of wood crashing against wood in the open outside, and that set off a thousand warning alarums.

It was all Kili could do, really, to shove as much of the delicious roast into his mouth as he could, as fast as he could, without choking. Not nearly fast enough: before long there were footsteps at his doorsteps. In busted Fili,

 _Oh, Mahal_.

“You up, Kee?” said Fili. Water was dripping from his hair and beard, like he'd just had a very quick wash. Or someone had dumped a pail on his head. Since he was grinning, it couldn't quite have been the latter, could it?

“What's the matter, Fee?” he asked with a yawn, pointing to his plate. “Can it wait?” Fili's grin did not fade. “Oh no. Don't tell me-”

“Yes it's _Dwalin_ ,” said Fili, making a face at the plate. “What do you expect?” he said. “On the warpath again, that's what! Told us to make ready for a spar in five, or else!”

 _Oh, Mahal_.

What could Kili do but gulp down some water and take off? Dwalin took his training very seriously as a rule!

Never before or after, Kili thought, would a courtyard smack in the middle of elf-country be so full of dwarves. Everyone in their company were present, down to their favorite hobbit-burglar-storyteller, forming a wide circle around Dwalin. Well, mostly everyone: Uncle and Balin weren't there, nor was the wizard, for some reason.

Dwalin was distributing sticks and boards among the dwarves and setting up a ring of a sort on the cobblestone (thankfully not the grass – it would be discourteous and a poor way to repay the elves' hospitality indeed!) when they stepped into the fore.

“There you are, Kili, Fili. I was just waiting for you two!” said Dwalin. He tossed two large sticks and two round boards at their feet. “Have at it now! Let me see your improvements!”

_Oh, Mahal._

***

Iida Tenya... well, had no idea what he should think for the moment. 

“I simply cannot believe I'm playing the villain role for my first class!” he said. He was shaking a little inside. “This goes against all virtues and values instilled upon me as part of my family tradition and education!”

And that was the abridged version. The thoughts in his head was a lot more stilted and archaic-sounding.

“Do you have a plan, Midoriya?” he asked. “I would rather you take the exercise seriously! Put away your phone and-”

“Actually,” said the green-haired boy, flicking the diagrams over the screen of his phone. “I thought I do have something of the sort.” He angled his phone towards Tenya. “Look at this, if you will!”

Tenya did as he was told with a grumble under his breath. His groan died on his lip at the first glance. “Those are...”

He did not know much about Hatsume Mei – yet. But one look at the schematics and Tenya could tell at once: this girl was a genius. She'd somehow integrated into a gauntlet five kinds of ammunition, available at the pull of a tab, designed specifically for use with Midoriya's sling.

Now Tenya might not be a military enthusiast, but he _had_ heard Tensei talk about things like _hollow-point_ and _incendiary_ and _shaped charge_ and how sometimes the difference between a crisis averted and unacceptable casualties boil down to which kind of ammo was loaded. _In any case, you don't want to point them at anyone you don't want killed,_ Tensei had said with a laugh (like he did with most business).

Midoriya's gauntlet came with a supply of all three (or the sling bullet equivalent thereof). The thought of using them against his _classmates_ chilled him to the bones. Tenya jabbed his finger at the offending drawing. “You _do_ know these are designed to _kill_ or at least maim, do you?” he exclaimed. “In fact, is this kind of firepower even legal? I can't believe All Might even allowed you to-”

“I imagined as much,” said Midoriya. “If it helps, I have no intention to use these three, implacably annoying as I do find _certain people_.”

As proof he unlatched their respective magazines and emptied the content on the floor. Tenya swallowed hard as the brass-cast pellets clattered against the tiling.

“Good,” said Tenya with a sigh. “How did Hatsume- how did she think this kind of ammunition is a good idea?”

“Perhaps she thought we were up against robots again,” said Midoriya thoughtfully. “Besides she gets carried away, often and badly. At any rate, this...” His finger slid across the screen, and his green eyes lit up. “This fauntling – I mean, _baby –_ shall be right rambunctiously confusticating and bebothering for those on the receiving end!”

The fourth type of ammunition wasrubber shots ( _designed to bounce. Watch the trajectory!_ said the instructions). There was a fifth type, too, and the corner of Tenya's lips shuddered.

“Is that a-” he said. “Did she seriously miniaturize a-”

Midoriya was _thrilled_ , and could Tenya seriously blame him? The concept was _genius_ , and a lot less deadly and more practical than, well, everything else about that glove, too!

“I suppose,” he said, “telling her how I turned a _phone_ into a weapon once upon a time did much to stimulate her imagination.”

“That's all well and good,” said Tenya. “But I thought you said something about a plan? We're up against _Bakugou-_ ”

“That I did,” said Midoriya. “Do you read ancient tales and legends very often, Iida?” He blinked deviously. “Heroes like fighting honorably in tests of arms. Villains lurk, plot and ambush. We have a building with so many good hiding places, and are supposed to act like villains for once. What do you think, Iida? There are a million ways to ambush a pair of unsuspecting heroes” He took a sharp breath. “I've wanted to do that sort of thing since I was a wee lad!”

Iida Tenya didn't realize it, but just that moment, his eyes rectangular had turned positively _round_. Now _that_ was unbelievable.

“That's not a bad idea, honest, but really, Midoriya? That's so unfair and unsportsmanlike – and unheroic!”

“Like I said, when a villain, think as villains do,” said Midoriya. “Dark Lords aren't meant to be considerate nor kind to their pawns, nor are they supposed to play fair in the slightest (not unless they'd been caught by surprise, which we are trying not to be).”

Then mischief in his face faded, in its place dead seriousness (and Iida would like more of that, thank you very much!) “We can't beat Uraraka _and_ Bakugou in a fair fight, and you know it,” he said. “We can, however, make them waste precious time through trickery and misdirection – _a stitch in time saves nine_ , _and procrastination is a thief of time_ , like my father used to say.”

Tenya found himself nodding, and nodding, and nodding some more. “It's not... half bad a plan,” he said.

A smirk came to his face. If he was to play villain... let's play villain _heroically_.

“Why, I'm in,” he said. “You know what, I changed my mind; let's drop all this _disgusting_ and _antiquated_ tradition of heroism. We can be the best villain team ever, and rule the world together with an ironclad fist!” Then he drew in a deep breath, and began cackling like a mad scientist with a doomsday death ray remote control in his hand.

“Music to my ear,” said Midoriya. He stuck out a hand. “Ten minutes, Iida. Can you do it?”

Tenya took his hand. “Ten minutes it is.”

***

Bofur would not admit it to just about anyone, but he had spent the better part of the previous day hounding the elves' kitchen-maids. And before you get the wrong idea, it was only the beer he was after. _How_ exactly to brew the same, mind.

So when he woke up to Dwalin's massive form (for a dwarf) standing in front of his bed loudly declaring it _training o'clock_ , Bofur was all too quick to protest. It simply wasn't enough, Now he was standing there in the shade of a great oak tree yawning and dreaming of elven draught while Kili and Fili were sparring with sticks and boards.

“I do wish we didn't have to spar as much,” groaned Ori. _Or watch princelings spar,_ Bofur added.

There simply wasn't much fun seeing two princes go at it with flurries and flourishes. Their moves were good and swift, their feet steady, their blows strong and well-aimed... but too regimented, too... textbook. Fights were only fun as a rule after you'd have a couple tankards, when neither party could move or aim so well or predict each other's move at all. Chaotic, messy, exciting stuff. Much more like _real_ fights if Bofur had anything to say about it.

In fact, bar fights more often than not meant bets. Bets were good; life would be quite a lot more fun if everyone would put down a coin or two for the littlest thing. Not in this company, apparently: The last time he pulled out a betting pool on a spar he earnt himself a dirty look courtesy of the bald dwarf that said “Never do that again”. Bofur would like to be in everyone's good grace, thank you very much! Wouldn't do well to be murdered by a company member long before he'd seen heads or tails of Erebor, after all.

For quite the same reason Bofur wasn't complaining, at least not as much as he would normally have.

“Boring as boring-do, eh, Master Baggins?” He yawned and cast a sideway glance to the hobbit. “Why even bother – what are you doing?”

It was a very, very good question: The hobbit was mumbling.

“ _Kili's doing a left parry to counter that swipe – but wouldn't an uppercut have done better? Oh, now Fili's angling that shield and ripostling – I'd put some space between them because he's got a longer reach with that stick. I wonder how far they could actually jump? I'd jump right there if I were Kili. Oh, a fabulous block!_ ”

“Master Baggins?” Bofur rolled his eyes despite himself “What are _you_ doing?”

“Oh?” The hobbit looked at him as though he had just been snapped from a slumber too deep. “Oh! Sorry, sorry, my bad!” he said with a _really_ deep bow. “I was just a little lost in, uh, observation.”

“Observation?”

Bilbo Baggins nodded. “Lots to learn just from watching people fight.” He began scribbling on what looked like Ori's sketchbook. More mysteries: the youngest dwarf in the company did not seem to mind overly much. Last time he went anywhere near Ori's sketchbook (while drunk, mind) he got himself a very dirty look and a bonk over the head with said rolled book for his trouble.

Just then Bofur heard a loud _smack._ “Oh!” cried the hobbit.

Fili had, not very surprisingly, got through his brother's defense. A _whack_ on the shield's tail end followed by a kick and a block that segued into a shield-bash. One leg-sweep followed, sending the younger princeling tumbling face-down on the grass.

Interesting, he thought. The princelings were learning to fight _chaotically_ at last. Next to him, the hobbit's scrawling was becoming more frantic. “Keep-leg-open-and-watch-for-sweeps,” he spelled the words out.

“That _was_ a good scrap,” said Dwalin. “And very good thinking, Fili! _That's_ how you fight orcs if – _when_ we get to fight them.” He looked to his side. “Gloin, how about coming right here and showing the lads how it's done?”

***

Ochako was cursing herself all the way from the classroom to the waiting room, and then again from the waiting room to the actual training building. She was swimming in thoughts and doubts and annoyance, and not a small amount of fear, too.

Taking her mind off Bakugou for a while – because whoever thought she would make a good team with _him_ was probably out of their mind – there was the matter of Midoriya and his new gauntlet.

Midoriya's new toy was _beautiful_. Not in an artsy or delicate way, no, quite the opposite. it was just the one Hatsume had given him before with some additions. Now it included a box-like, bulging elbow-pad that tapered down the calf, and a ridge winding round the wrist connecting said box to the palm. Rugged, stylish and, until proven otherwise, functional.

No, the beauty part had nothing to do with shape or design or color. It was how Hatsume had taken basically her entire school day just finishing it up in time for their combat training. And finished all the paperwork that would go with it, too!

A very tiny part of Ochako was right _jealous_. She did not know if Hatsume had done that much because Midoriya _had asked_ , or because _Midoriya_ had asked. And while part of her was shouting 'You must know!', the other part was screaming 'No you don't!' 

Not to mention, a _really_ selfish part of her secretly wanted some nice toys delivered to her table too, darn it! Izuku wasn't the only one with trouble controlling his quirk, was he?

And Bakugou still hadn't said a word to her. How were they supposed to work together again? With a sigh, Ochako switched on her phone – last minute check for any messages or funny memes before switching it off for the duration of the exercise.

“' _ Entrance Exam Arena Trap Survivors' sent you a message.”  _

Ochako's hands trembled harder. She swallowed quickly.  _ T-this can't be what I think it is, can it? _

But it was, and more. Fifty megabytes' worth of diagrams, drawings and instruction no doubt explaining exactly what Izuku's new gauntlet was supposed to achieve was now available at Ochako's fingertip. 

Ochako knew all about Midoriya's upgrade now. And she was on the  _ other _ team.

_ What should I do?  _

***

Gloin and his son might as well had the surname “Axeborn” or something to the same effect. They were stocky and strong as dwarves went, and loved axes to a fault. And when there weren't real axes or real warfare (Gloin would hope Gimli would get to live beyond the scourge of wars, at least for a few years to come), sparring exercises were nearly as good.

He stepped forward into the dirt-ring, brandishing stick and board. On the other end stood Dori the strong, the former guardsman, the infamous dandy with two notorious brothers.

“Been a while, hasn't it?” said Dori.

“Couple years, give or take,” said Gloin, and he grinned his beardy grin. Dori might be too well-dressed for a proper dwarf, but Gloin knew better. His heart was in the fight as much as any of the very best.

“See that young Gimli doesn't overtake you any time soon, kinsman.”

“Let's hope he does,” said Gloin, “through no fault of my own. _Baruk Khazad!_ ”

“ _Baruk Khazad_!” cried Dori, and then it began.

They did not rush each other. Rushing was not how dwarves fought. Instead they each took measured steps at each other, like two glaciers about to crash. Because when they _did_ crash, it did not matter how much of a noise they make. No, dwarves fighting was all about who would walk away.

There was a loud, dull, double _thud_ as they met. In fact Gloin had to take a single step back: Dori had never gotten weaker, while Gloin, well, had. But he'd got a little faster, too, and more agile. He broke off the lock and swung back at the edge of Dori's shield. A startled Dori took a half-step back: the hit glanced off the center of his shield.

Then came the dance, because it could hardly be called anything else. The sticks flew not in a flurry, but in swift and heavy blows calculated on the fly. The boards remained not in a place, but moved and shifted about to cover and deflect. Always a parry followed by a counter swing. Always strafing around, stocky feet never stopping. Always feinting, always sending false signals, always aiming for the cracks.

Their legs must have made dozens upon dozens of rounds about each other now, and the ground itself was scourged by their feet. Was it any surprise that among dwarves occasionally blood enemies knew each other better than brothers?

Finally it was Dori who made a swipe in too wide an arc. Gloin put everything he had into a single bash, and as Dori shuddered backwards tore his shield from his grip with a mighty swing.

“I yield,” claimed Dori, hands raised, and Gloin let down his stick. His shield was in one piece no more: it was dented and cracked all over, and its boss was bent to the breaking point courtesy of Dori's strongest blow. He raised it high: a shattered shield might not look like much to other folk, but to a steady dwarf it was a proof of bravery second only to bodily wounds.

Then Gloin looked down at the younger dwarves. _This is how dwarves fight,_ he had half a mind to speak, but ended up not saying anything at all. Proper dwarves should act more than talk, and his performance had done the part of speaking already.

Dwalin looked impressed. Well, more impressed than he normally was about Gloin at any rate.

“Good, good, very good!” he said. “Now, let's see... Ah, Gloin, if you wouldn't mind testing the new blood? Master Bilbo Baggins, care to show us how much you've learned in the craft of war?”

At once the dwarven rank went alive with mutters.

Gloin just went cross-eyed. _Is this a joke?_

ButDwalin looked dead serious, and there was no arguing with a serious Dwalin.

***

Bakugou Katsuki was angry with a capital A.

In fact, he had been in a constant state of rage ever since they told him their middle school in the middle of nowhere now had two students going on into U.A. 

But anger hardly described the storm within him. Katsuki was angry, and confused, and anxious. He was more than a little scared, too, if he had half a mind to admit to himself. The last one he brushed away, because he had never thought himself anything but a hero and heroes were supposed to be fearless, weren't they?

Now Katsuki was intelligent. He'd learnt how to write his own name in Kanji long before he was in first grade. He designed his own hero uniform down to the calculations. On a good day he could do logarithm in his head while brushing teeth and cursing at germs.

So when he saw _Deku_ acting not like himself, his first thought had been _save yourself_. He would never admit that Deku had frightened him in any way, shape or form, but the truth was what it was: _Deku cowed you into submission._

But Katsuki was intelligent, and when he was not too prideful to ignore it he could think up a lot of things. For the past week his wisdom had been screaming at him almost non-stop. _Something isn't right,_ it had said. _Something is_ wrong _with Deku_ , it had said. And, flowing naturally from that, _this is not_ just _about you and your grudge._

Much as it pained Katsuki to admit it, he thought his subconscious wisdom had made sense. The insignificant _Deku_ might have hit a tipping point. Cracked. Snapped. Turned to the dark side. Taken the first step to villaindom, worst case scenario.

Someone had to be pulling his strings. Someone _had_ to be, because Deku might be brave on a good day but never hateful. Never threatening. Never malicious.

And just as someone was driving Deku into straight-up villainy, someone had to stop him.

Katsuki would be that someone. Because he was a hero. Heroes protected innocents. Heroes took down threats to the peace like Deku on a rampage. And who better than Katsuki? He was powerful. He was the best. He was invincible-

Then Katsuki's mind snapped to that incident a year ago. The lowest point in his career. What sort of hero would let himself be held at the mercy of a villain to the point he needed someone to bail him out?

No, no, no, he shook his head. Neither the time nor place to think about that. Even pro-heroes admitted how strong and how amazing he was, fending off the slime villain as he did. Of course he was strong and amazing. He was Bakugou Katsuki, and that was synonym for awesome.

_Calm yourself, steel yourself, beat the shit out of Deku. Business as usual._

The more brutal part of Katsuki, that had no business being inside a hero whatsoever, wanted to grab Deku by the neck, break both his arms and rearrange his face without anaesthetics.

The more rational and heroic part of him shouted it down. _There is a time for beating the crap out of Deku,_ it said. _Now's the time for_ answers _._

 _Answer, huh._ Bakugou could live with it. If he was to be a bit rough, well, it was training. Besides, it wasn't like heroes never manhandled villains. All Might should know that much.

_Shouldn't he?_

“Bakugou?”

Katsuki turned around and saw his so-called partners looking at him intently. How annoying. He could do this better when he was alone. “What is it, moonface?”

“Um-” Uraraka was looking back and forth and decidedly not at him. “I-I was just trying to say, let's be real careful, 'kay? Midoriya's kind of... sort of...”

“Of course he's dangerous, stupid.”

Uraraka blinked, blinked and blinked some more. “Eh?”

 _How annoying._ “Here's the deal,” he said. If she wasn't going to look at Katsuki's face, no reason for him to do likewise. “We're gonna bust in there, make a whole lotta noise and draw _Deku_ to an open place so I can punch him in the face.”

Uraraka huffed. “Look, there's a time for attitude and this isn't it, okay?” she said. “We have to work together and-”

An explosion went off in Katsuki's palm.

“Tell you what, moonface. You're still in my good graces. See to it that you fucking remain there.” His iron sole stamped so hard on the concrete step Katsuki thought he heard it crunch underneath. “Why not start by staying out of my fucking way?” he drawled, and thought he heard Uraraka reeling back. He ignored her.

Katsuki was an asshole, and he knew it. Didn't mean he couldn't try to protect a patently useless silly girl from a blatantly dangerous _Deku_.

***

Thorin had been spending time in the company of the only one who made any kind of sense of late: his cousin Balin – and yes he did realize how much he sounded like the _Tharkun_ at that.

“Durin's Day,” said Thorin. “We do have some time to spare; with luck and if we push on fast enough we might be able to go all the way around Mirkwood and avoid any more elves altogether.”

“That is one month's worth of travel, and not much safer.” said Balin. “Dol Guldur lies in the way, and evil things come out of those ruins at night – and in broad daylight on an ill day..”

“Depending on what you would like to face; spiders and elves or more goblins.” said Thorin, picking up his goblet. “It has been a very long while indeed since any of Durin's folk passed by that way. In fact, I thought Gandalf would rather we took the long trek: we've just enough time to do that, if we could indeed get through the Misty Mountains swiftly enough.”

“You suspected the wizard knew of the secret of the Door?”

“There is nothing, I suspect, that he doesn't,” said Thorin. “We are only here, Balin, by dint of lucky coincidences; and I don't think much of _coincidences_. We've played straight into the wizard's hands. He holds all the cards.”

Balin glanced at his cousin's face. “I don't personally have any qualm against the present arrangements,” he said slowly. “Nor does most of the Company. They'd treat us well, better than we could have asked for at the height of Thror's reign. Master Elrond gave us his words, and if Gandalf had wished ruin upon us of Durin's folk he had so many chances to do so had he half a mind..”

“That's not the point,” said Thorin. “I suspect Gandalf wanted us to succeed, but it isn't so much gold that he desired, but something else from our quest. Gold and silver might furnish a wizard quite well, but his heart is not in it, you see. I suspect something very dire is afoot, something we did not expect to take place and would have done well without, but is already under way with or without us!”

Now Balin sat in silent for a while. “I know it is a bitter cup to swallow, cousin,” he finally said. “but the truth none the less. Perhaps the day may come that dwarves would suffer no more injustices, in my lifetime if we are steadfast and lucky, but not today and not here.” His cousin reclined against his seat, tired and weary. “You read the old books as well as I do. There are worse shame than being beholden to elves and wizards, and the charity of a hobbit.”

Thorin smirked. “Seems you don't understand me as well as I think you do, cousin.”

“Do I not?”

Thorin shook his head emphatically. “I may be proud, as are all of our line, Balin,” he said. “Not stupid. The trolls were armored, if you recall. And not shabby armor put together from pilfered corpses. They are of goblin make – clever and cunning.”

“Were they now?” said Balin.

“I am sure. As if I would ever forget the make of arms borne by Azog and his bodyguards at the gate of Moria” Thorin said. “That is the moment I realized we will _need_ the help of elves, or men, or really anyone who hated goblins more than they desired our treasures, in such way as would keep our pride intact and them from our hoards.”

Balin reeled back; now his brows were furrowed and the creases on his forehead made him look far older than he was. “What did the elf and the wizard tell you, cousin?”

Thorin took a sip of elf-draught from his goblet. To his great chagrin they did taste alright. “Terrible tiding,” he said truthfully. “Had we crossed the Misty Mountains last year at this point, they said, a couple of scouts – nay, a map detailing shortcuts and less-traveled mountain paths would be enough. But this year... goblins are swarming out and about. The Misty Mountains and beyond are in an uproar.”

“What?” Balin exclaimed. “But that doesn't make any sense! Our road has been quiet so far but for the trolls!”

“Did you see the elves on the road?” said Thorin. “Armed to the teeth and ears. I haven't seen an elf as well-clad in gleaming steel in my entire life! Not once were their songs silly and daft, merry even: those are war hymns on their lips, and had Thranduil's host came to our aid that day even you would have heard them!” He drew a stiff breath. “And the rampart. This little manor's rampart had elves patrolling atop, equally as armed and armored. They knew, Balin. They knew and had been making preparations for a while, I am sure.”

“They could be bluffing,” said Balin. “The trail cross the Misty Mountains could be perfectly safe and free of goblins, if they have indeed been stepping up the patrol.”

Thorin picked up a loaf of bread. “Perhaps. But what if they aren't, and the Misty Mountains is as full of goblins as they come?” He took a massive bite off it and chewed like it was an enemy's head. “The elf Elrond suggested we could have the entire host of Longbeards at our disposal and would have trouble crossing the Misty Mountains at all. What if he is right?”

Balin did not answer. In fact, he was sitting there at the table, absorbed in the sunlight dancing at the window-sill. Thorin did not push him.

“Do you remember Moria?”

Balin crossed his arm for long, and then brought his pipe to his mouth equally as long. “We haven't spoken about it for years, cousin,” he said at last. “What's the occasion?”

“I think of Moria often,” said Thorin. “Not the battle, but _Khazad-dum_ itself. Where Durin's Folk is meant to be. And I thought-” He fell silent for a moment. “-if our history is _meant_ to happen. If our kin is _meant_ to be scattered all across the four corners of the earth. If we would ever reclaim a _home_ home – or just a reprieve before the next catastrophe.”

“It isn't like you to be defeatist,” said Balin. “It's ill wisdom to call off the expedition now if that's what you're insinuating-”

“Of course not,” said Thorin. “Merely thinking how much we would have to part with, to afford an army of _mercenary elves_ if that is indeed what they're trying to sell me. The thought of parting with so much gold yet unearned is not comforting, you see.” There was a dry chuckle in his throat. “Neither is the consideration of whether they would slit our throats in our sleep. Uncomfortable, harrowing thoughts that makes you ill at the dinner table.”

“You're sounding a little like the hobbit.”

“I don't think that is at all a bad thing,” said Thorin. “At any rate he keeps the Company better entertained than an endless keg of good ale, burglar or not; and entertainment might be in sore supply in the days to come.”

***

There was a time Yagi Toshinori thought teaching was dull, boring and so easy he could do it with eyes closed. Well, not any longer.

The moment he saw the spark in young Bakugou's eyes, and another spark in young Midoriya's eyes, he knew trouble was afoot. Then he saw a curl on their respective lips that screamed _violence_ and _mischief_ , and it was all he could do not to scream “Lesson! Cancelled!” and gesturing wildly in the way only he could.

This was not how if was meant to be. This was not what he intended.

When he had suggested Nedzu to adapt the curriculum towards greater student cooperation and teamwork, he had done it for young Midoriya's sake. Because with his control of One For All he wasn't going to be the kind of hero like All Might, who would stand in the front line and punch villains until they give up. No, he was supposed to be the unassuming boy who nobody would think a hero, who'd watch and observe and then pull out his sling and land a shot at the evil-doer's back before they knew what hit them.

It was not heroic, but it was what Midoriya was good _for_. And though he had had no degree in pedagogy whatsoever, and his skull might be incredibly thick, it was basic wisdom better to let a child do what he was meant to do rather than what others thought was good for him.

It wasn't like Midoriya could seriously hope to fight Bakugou one-on-one. Toshinori had seen the video recordings. The explosive young man whose everything from hair to palm to personality were explosive was a force to be reckoned with: you could throw him into the thick of combat alongside most pro-heroes and he would not let down.

How would Midoriya deal with fighting him? Without much control at all of his quirk?

_No, he couldn't be-_

Fear was gnawing at his gut.

 _He couldn't be thinking of using_ those _bullets, could he?_

A cornered rat could bite off a finger, and young Midoriya was a _lot_ more than that. He was a tiger cub, young and so full of spirit. Cornering him while he had just had those claws replaced with mono-molecular cutters? Bad, bad, _bad_ idea.

_Don't do it, Midoriya. You don't want to. You must not. You hear me?_

But then he saw Midoriya stand up. Toshinori lifted his brow: Midoriya was removing shots from his glove, and then Iida was putting them away. For a second Toshinori thought his protege had _heard_ his inner mumble. But no, he hadn't – there was no way he could have. It was only his sense of heroism and not wanting to hurt people.

The other side of the exercise wasn't quite as optimistic. The grin on young Bakugou's face did not become any less murderous. If the looks of things were of any indication, he was frightening his own partner. Young Uraraka looked like she was about to panic. Toshinori thought of Bakugou's costume design, and realized if he'd gone all out it wouldn't be much better than Midoriya slinging around explosive shots meant for taking down tanks.

_Calm down, Toshinori. All Might. Calm down, and let the children prove themselves. If things go wrong... you are the teacher. You can call it stop._

Toshinori listened to himself. It might be a mistake... but for the sake of educating these children, it was a risk he would have to take.

“Exercise! Start!”

***

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes and Fanon:
> 
> \- Dori's family: Almost entirely fanon, inspired by many preexisting fanfic, the most prominent being MarieJacquelyn's An Expected Journey and ISeeFire's Homeward Bound - and a bit of my own touch too. Both are my recommended reading for the Hobbit fandom.
> 
> \- Why move the combat training to the afternoon? Mostly to make it so Mei has time to fix Izuku/Bilbo the new glove. Mei had got five hours, from the beginning of their classes to early in the afternoon, to upgrade it with the design specified in chapter 4. Given her ingenuity this much should be more than enough.
> 
> \- What is there in Izuku's gloves? Five types of ammo: Hollow (point) - basically a sling-bullet with a hollow inside, Incendiary - same as above, but filled with flammable oil to be ignited by friction, shaped charge - a bullet with a diamond-shaped frame with explosives inside, rubber shots - exactly what it says on the tin, and a fifth type that would become apparent in the next chapter. 
> 
> Now I haven't done the exact maths, but I suspect even Bilbo can shoot a sling bullet twice as "hard" as the normal, unaugmented slinger - translated into terminal velocity. I've read somewhere that sling bullets are shot in the ballpark of 40-50 meters per second, and in the right hands are as deadly as a .44 Magnum. Doubling that figure, and you have ~100 meters per second. Nowhere near an anti-materiel rifle proper (1450 mps for the IWS-2000, as Google tells me), but factoring in the additional bullet mass and it's about as good as any firearm that doesn't leave your target a bloody mess. Augmented with OFA at even 5%, and there you have your light-tank-busting, Deathclaw-murderizing AMR.
> 
> Do I want Bilbo/Izuku to actually shoot that at anyone? Not if I don't want them to wallow in guilt for the rest of their life, I don't.
> 
> \- On the recharacterization of Katsuki: This is probably the most controversial part of this chapter, following up on the controversial "villain-speech" by Izuku several chapters ago and takes into consideration Katsuki's later characterization too. 
> 
> Here's the deal: Katsuki has never *not* thought himself a hero. He might be either extremely arrogant (very early on) or fraught with inferiority-superiority complex (later on) and a huge jerk in both cases, but deep inside he always think himself if not an outright hero, then a hero material. What heroes do all the time - saving people - must have rubbed off on him at least as much as not losing or giving up. He just doesn't show it; mostly because until at least the Summer Camp arc there's no real situation where he really had to stand back and think, "do I need to save people?" 
> 
> By introducing a situation where Izuku more or less had forced him to think about the hero-villain dichotomy, then, Katsuki is forced to start thinking more about what makes a hero a hero several arcs too early. He's still a jerk - no working around that - but he might be getting a bit better than he does in canon here...


	14. We Hobbits Are Plain Quiet Folk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late update, I know! Real life hasn't been treating me very well - and neither is summer. This chapter is also quite hard to visualize, and that makes things all the harder...
> 
> But on the plus side, an update - never too late nor too early, but exactly when it is meant to come!
> 
> Thanks to everyone for your continued support, and I'd be very glad to hear more comments on basically anything related to the story!

**CHAPTER 13**

**WE HOBBITS ARE PLAIN QUIET FOLK**

 

Getting in would have been the easy part. Slightly less easy was persuading Bakugou _not_ to blow up the door. Ochako felt like knocking him silly, and pointed to a ground floor window whose glass were so flimsy all it would take to break through was a good punch.

To make things better it was unlatched too. Ten minutes was hardly enough for their opponent to really seal the building. The duo climbed into the building without much of a hitch – not counting Bakugou's grumbles, that was.

 _Knowing Midoriya, he probably has something up his sleeve,_ she thought, and promptly whacked herself. Of course he had; _Hatsume_ had made him that amazing toy to play with!

But no sooner had she set foot inside than her pang of confused jealousy gave way for the fear of sudden explosions, or bullets that would literally expand inside people if hit. A kind of liminal darkness washed over her, spectral and uncomfortable. Sure, it might be afternoon and some light could filter in through the windows on the side, but the main corridor was dark as the twilight and the stairwell darker.

Bakugou flicked what looked like a power switch. And another. And another. Nothing happened.

“Coward put out all the light,” he said, grinding his teeth. “No matter. As if the shitstain could ever see two inches in front.”

Explosions crackled upon his fingers. He pushed through into the corridor, dropping expletives as his feet caught on a broken chair's foot.

The ground floor offered no resistance but the darkness. Nothing quite troubling on the first floor either, save for Bakugou mumbling more foul language for whatever reason.

But then they ascended to the second floor, and suddenly their way was unhindered no longer. The continuous stairway between the second and third had been blocked up by dozens of iron chairs and tables. piled up willy-nilly into a small mound that threatened to fall apart if they tried climbing.

“I could lift these out of the way,” she suggested.

Bakugou didn't even look at her. “And do what, make an even bigger mess?” he said under his breath. “Deku probably thought you'd do that and clog up the whole fucking place even worse!”

Ochako bit down a shout. Bakugou wasn't wrong: there was so much furniture debris about and so little space to deposit them, lifting the stuff wasn't going to solve a whole lot. Besides, there were so many tables and chairs, she could just as easily make the whole thing cascade down on her.

“Well, what would you do then?” she said quietly.

“Brain, Moon-face. Building has two stairways.” Bakugou harrumphed. “Deku probably didn't have the time to block off the other stairwell.” There was a very brutal glint in his eyes. “Let's play his damned game if he's so eagle to get wasted.”

Then he turned round the corner into the corridor. Ochako followed suit, and no sooner had she glanced into the hallway that a gasp escaped her.

The place was _wrecked._

The floor must have previously been full of cupboards and tablers and chairs and lockers, ostensibly to simulate an office block. Now all of that furniture was levied against them.

The ground was instead covered with bits and pieces of broken wood. Lockers had been thrown down in such ways that Ochako could barely push through without scraping herself. Then there were fans and electric kettles and a couple of computer screens, all tossed into the way. Just like the stairway: not much space to clean up – or time, for that matter. Must have been Iida's work, she thought. A motor engine built into one's legs could do an ugly lot within just a couple minutes.

More light was streaming in through the windows now, but all it did was make the place look that much more eerie; like one of those buildings her father's company was halfway through demolishing. Or worse, an everyday housing block after a villain had been through with it, with all the broken objects about. That mental image, well, was so surprisingly fitting: this _was_ an everyday housing block after a 'villain' had been through with it.

More frightening still, was how many blind spots they had around the many corners of lockers and tables. The apprehension was nagging at the back of Ochako's mind. She might not be a military otaku, but even she could tell they were sitting ducks if someone were to snipe at them from the shadows.

_That was probably Midoriya's plan, was it?_

She tried not to think how much it would hurt (physically speaking) to be shot in the back when she was trying to duck under a locker.

_But Midoriya's a nice guy, he wouldn't do that, right? Right?_

Bakugou was growling and crawling under a locker knocked askew that was blocking the width of the corridor.

“What do we do now?” she asked. “Should we get back to the stairw-”

He was, predictably, having none of that defeatism. He'd finished crawling, and now blasted a table apart. The chair and computer monitor on top of it fell down in a cascade. “You want the harder work, be my fucking guest.”

Ochako sighed and tagged behind him. No point in arguing against _Bakugou_.

And then Ochako heard a _clatter clatter_ , and her heart jumped.

“ _Well, well, well, what do we have here? Heroes from far away, seeking fame and fortune!_ ”

Bakugou stopped where he stood. He turned towards the sound – it had come from the end of the corridor, and who else could it have been?

“ _Goodness gracious me, welcome to my smial! A bit dusty and not so hospitable any more, but we hobbits aren't quite fond of guests without good will!_ ”

Ochako had never thought Midoriya's voice could have sounded so threatening – yet it was, mischievous and ridiculing and malicious even. and she was shuddering more than a little now.

“ _I hope you do enjoy your stay, sir and ma'am!_ ”

The jolly of his voice was so distant, so dissonant, so... eerie. She turned around: Now Bakugou's face was livid and red and purple all over, and there were sparks all over his palms.

“ _DEKU_!”

***

Tenya flicked the last piece of junk in sight off the window. _So far no explosions from below._ He sighed in relief, took off his helmet, wiped the sweat off his forehead, and put it back on. A good villain had to look sufficiently intimidating, and Tenya wouldn't think his everyday face was good enough for either end of the hero-villain spectrum..

Ah, was he proud of his handiwork: not a speck of dust remained on the floor, wall, ceiling, anywhere. He'd followed Midoriya's plan, except this one part. This part was his own thinking. Leaving anything, anything at all, that Uraraka could send flying at him could easily spell doom to the whole effort.

_“You sure I'll just have to handle Uraraka?”_

_“Absolutely,”_ Midoriya had said. _“Let's just say Bakugou has a history of a sort with me, and he wouldn't turn down a chance to beat me up.”_

Tenya had, of course, protested fervently. _“That sounds like a terrible idea, forgive me for the offense! This is still only a school exercise and our safety has to take priority as much as the actual content of the training itself! You cannot possibly-”_

But there had been a flash of resolve on Midoriya's face. _“It's not a matter of_ can _or_ cannot _.”_ So grim and cryptic. So unlike the nice boy he'd shown himself to be. _“It's a matter of_ must _.”_

 _“Look, we're a team, Midoriya,”_ Tenya had said. _“We have to work together, villain or no-”_

 _“You got me wrong, Iida. This is quite likely the best we would have for teamwork. There's no way the both of us can take on the both of them and be sure of winning. We can only stall.”_ He'd been halfway to the stairway when he'd turned around, and suddenly he'd returned to the friendly and smiling Midoriya again. _“So let me ask you again: Can I count on you to keep Uraraka away?”_

What could Iida have done but say yes?

If he was to look at matters rationally – and Iida was proud of his rational mind – then the arrangement had indeed been the best they could have had. Iida's body plus his armor was too bulky, and his quirk too noisy, to do what Midoriya was planning. No, he wasn't good at all skulking in the shadow and taking pot-shots. His place was right there as the stage boss, and he'd better be a darn good stage boss who wouldn't let any boss arena shenanigan turn against him.

Again, not that it was easy for Bakugou _or_ Uraraka to reach him in the first place.

The building's layout wasn't too complicated. It was like every other dime-a-dozen five-storey office block in downtown Tokyo those days. Each floor consisted of a corridor in the shape of a square bracket, surrounded by empty rooms on either side. The floors are connected by two sets of staircases, one at each end of the corridor. The top floor, however, had a single stairway leading to it from the one below. The entire floor was one gigantic room in itself, lined with two rows of pillars and a few windows jammed shut. In the middle stood their prize: a full-sized, obviously not functional, papier-mache nuclear bomb.

The contrast between the top floor and the two immediately below it was so unappealing to his fastidious self. Tenya had done it himself wrecking those lower floors: pushing lockers into the corridor, piling tables and chairs to choke up one of the two stairways, throwing broken electronics wherever he could, and shattering what he could into splinters on the floor. The stairwells were Midoriya's doing. He'd made it so one stairway was blocked on the second floor and the other on the third, so that Uraraka and Bakugou would have to pass at least one clogged hallway to get to the top floor – two if they'd chosen poorly.

If they'd manage to cross all of that, then there was Iida, leaning against said nuclear bomb and cackling like a supervillain in the making.

_Yes, yes, this is indeed the best plan-_

And then the building quaked.

***

Explosions rang across the corridor, but Katsuki didn't care much about the noise. Or the flames. Or the splinters of furniture blasted all over the place like shrapnels. He might or might not have told Uraraka to _get behind me_ and _don't be a fucking hero_. Not that it mattered: when he was done with it the corridor was _blasted._ Walls shattered, doors knocked in, tables and chairs crushed, lockers whacked around like ragdolls. There was now a veritable hole through the place between himself and the other stairwell, carved by his own hands.

But there was no Deku at that stairway. Not even makeshift barricades.

There was no Deku, but there was a pebble that glinted silver on the floor. Katsuki's eyelids twitched: he bent down and snatched the object from the floor. At once he felt sick to the stomach.

The object looked like one of those concealable microphones, windshield and all, made into a tiny sphere the size of his thumb joint. _Fucking Deku!_

“ _Ah, looks like you found me! Except you haven't, silly daft Big Folk! We can hear your footsteps a mile a-_ ”

Katsuki crunched the microphone in his palm and exploded it for good measures. “Fucker's making a _fool_ out of us.” He could barely hear his own voice, ugly though it had become.

He whipped around just in time to see – and hear – _movement_. A rubber shot whizzed underneath Katsuki's elbow. Katsuki leaped to the side; not nearly fast enough, for the shot managed to sail by his leg and ripped past his knee guard. His nostrils caught the ugly smell of burnt rubber.

Katsuki whirled around just in time for the shot. It was flying at them from the shadow, at a very _weird_ angle, bouncing and bouncing and _bouncing_. It ricocheted off the wall, clonked on a locker, rebounded off a broken chair, before shooting straight for him. But Uraraka had laid hands on a broken slab of a locker first and raised it like a shield.

The shot glanced off in an angle.

“Bakugou!” she cried, and Katsuki at once knew what to do: explosions crackled in his palm as he raised both arms.

The rubber ball vaporized in an explosion that blew off a chunk of the staircase themselves.

 _Moon-face isn't half bad,_ he grudgingly admitted _._ “Where did it come from?” he asked gruffly.

Uraraka shook her head. “Uh...”

Katsuki took that back. Moon-face really wasn't all that good.

One second passed in apprehension. Two. Then three. Then ten.

No more projectiles were coming. No, even Deku wouldn't be stupid enough to think two ricocheting rubber shots would be enough. Deku had _known_ Katsuki long enough to know how not to joke with the would-be strongest hero in the country!

But then Katsuki heard a very loud harrumph coming from somewhere within the floor.

“ _One Bakugou raging like a bee_

_Dear me, too proud to turn and flee_

_Off you go! Shot to the knee!”_

_Have a wager, you can't find me!”_

He was reciting an improvised poem. In _fucking English_.

“ _Bad old Kacchan sitting in a barn_

_Kacchan, bebothered by a yarn!_

_Here a shot! There a shot!_

_Round you turn, what a pile of sharn!”_

Katsuki had never got so close to blowing a fuse as now. He could hear his knuckles creaking, and tried very hard not to imagine strangling the life out of Deku. “I'll. Fucking. Murder. Him.”

“N-no, wait a second, Bakugou!” cried Uraraka. “Midoriya is... he could be anywhere in this floor! Or even above us! We should-”

Katsuki's eyes widened. Hold _on a second._

Uraraka was about to open her mouth when Katsuki glowered at her again.  “Stop where you are, Moonface.” he said. " _Fucking listen_."

“ _One Bakugou raging like a bee_

_Dear me, too proud to turn and flee...”_

The sound was coming from two places. On the other side of the corridor...

“ _Bad old Kacchan sitting in a barn_

_Kacchan, bebothered by a yarn!”_

… and underneath him.

A terribly wicked grin came to Katsuki's face, and he was fine with looking like a villain just for the moment. “Fucker's not on the floor at all.”

There really was only one thing Katsuki could do. He charged the stair and damn near slid down the bannister.

“Hey, Bakugou, wait up!”

“Do whatever the fuck you like!” he said. “Ain't gonna leave this score unsettled.”

The corner of his eyes caught Uraraka turning around towards a glint amidst the rubble. _Trick of the light. Or nothing particularly important._

***

Bilbo knew there was no way he could think faster than Katsuki – boy was virtually a genius, and Bilbo knew it. It was only a matter of time before he would find Bilbo: preferably later to earlier.

That was why his plan was all about delay.

It was working brilliantly too, for a plan so simple: all thanks to Mei's microphone sling-bullets. All he needed to do was to leave the amazing little things along the second floor corridor and then launch several shots at the intruders, just enough to 'persuade' Katsuki he was still hanging around on the same floor to mock him. In truth Bilbo had taken off immediately after the last shot, and had ran down the first floor while reciting admittedly terrible rhymes (and therefore an insult in and of itself) at Katsuki.

But then he heard footsteps where there really shouldn't have been, and his heart skipped a beat. He had only just gripped a hold of himself when Katsuki appeared appeared: the platinum-blond mane, the sound of crackling firework, and a screen of smoke that heralded _trouble_.

He had not expect Katsuki to be so _bright_.

There they stood, Bilbo and Katsuki, at two opposite end in an empty corridor. This was the worst possible outcome. It had been only a little more than three minutes, too.

“Just as I thought, Deku.” he drawled. “You weren't above us. You weren't even on the same floor. You were fucking _below_. Thought we wouldn't bother to bleeding check the floors we've crossed, huh?”

“Indeed I did,” said Bilbo truthfully. What was the point dodging it now? “When did you suspect it, I wonder?”

“The moment Uraraka stopped being an idiot stepping on all the shitty bits on the floor,” Katsuki said. “Your fucking noise-hole sounds like a broken radio I can hear from a fucking mile. Love your shit stories and _poetry_ so much, do you?”

Bilbo took a step back. “Nothing wrong with that,” he said, desperately trying to hook Katsuki into an argument – any argument, as long as the clock was still ticking.

Again, Bilbo was wrong. Katsuki was _smart_. “No matter,” he said. “Wanna be a _villain_ so badly, Deku? Clean the crap from your ear-hole: I'm the hero, and the hero never loses!”

Then Katsuki rushed at Bilbo, an explosion propelling him forward like an arrow loosed from a great bow. The hobbit could only cross his arms on pure reflex.

His face and chest instantly felt the clobbering of a hundred hammers from a right hook _._

Bilbo smelled burnt cloth. Air was forced out of his lungs. There was blood and iron on his tongue. His ears rang like so many bells.

But he hadn't lost his touch as much as he had thought: he curled into a ball, and literally rolled with the flow. Took him a second to skid to a halt from the recoil – the pain was blinding, but not so unbearable that he was completely defenseless. He was just trying to get up once more, when the silvery mane soared at him again. There was two dozen feet between him and Katsuki – and he was rushing so fast, so fast-.

“What's your precious 'quirk' doing, huh?”

 _Poxes and grippes!_ There was only one thing he could do now. He pulled a tab on his gauntlet. _Work, my fair dear!_

It worked.

A rubber marble fell into Bilbo's palm. The rest Bilbo left to his instinct. _War to the knife it is!_

He aimed a quick shot at the ground Katsuki was about to step on.

***

Ochako was racing up the fourth floor when she heard explosions echoing up from the floors below. The micro-speaker she'd picked up mimicked the sound so well her jumper was vibrating.  
  
The speaker told her things other than the blast themselves. Now she knew it wasn't just explosions: it was explosions _and_ an exchange of hateful words caused by a long history of enmity. A shiver came to her shoulders. Bakugou _had_ caught Midoriya after all, and most likely was laying the smackdown on him right now. By all means, that should have been a good thing, right? Bakugou and Ochako were on the same side-  
  
So why was she shivering again? Was it because of Midoriya's deadly toys? Or was it because Bakugou was sounding very much like he was going to _murder_ Midoriya in cold blood? Surely this wasn't supposed to be, right? Not on her first lesson, right? They weren't supposed to be fighting to the death, right?  
  
But it wasn't like she couldn't do anything about it. If the exercise concluded early, the beating would end, right? _Right_?  
  
She clenched her fist and rushed up the third floor. There seemed less furniture about and more space to fling them about. She lifted what she could out of the way, and parkoured her way through the rest.  
  
Not having to worry about being shot in the back was an immense relief, and not having Bakugou grumpily breathing down her neck was hugely helpful too. She figured Iida couldn't be anywhere other than the top floor either – otherwise her team would have gotten an easy win and there was no way Midoriya hadn't accounted for that.  
  
The fourth floor was even more empty. Ochako was dashing now along the pristine floor until the single stairway into the top floor was before her. She took a deep breath at the junction: light was shining down through the stairway.  
  
A little more than one minute before time was up. Ochako didn't know _how_ to win. She just knew that she _had_ to win.  
  
_Time to face Iida and be done with it_.  
  
The brave little heroine of a construction worker took a deep breath, cocked her head high, gripped the speaker in her pocket like it had been some sort of a charm, and faced her adversary.

***

Katsuki reeled back in his charge. Pain shot up his right arm like he'd taken a cane to his wrist.

For the first time in his life, Katsuki underestimated Deku's speed _and_ his aim. Just a little slower, and the rubber shot could have punched him very hard where it _really_ hurt.

Katsuki's price was his right gauntlet, split apart by a long crack from one end to the other. His collected sweat was dripping and dripping and dripping on the floor through the breach. If not for the color it would look quite like he was bleeding. Did Deku know of his costume's secret weapon? No, it wasn't likely. It was only a lucky shot. Just a lucky shot.

Besides, he wasn't even that badly hurt. Deku? Plastic helmet totaled. That silly rabbit tuft on his head, blown apart. Clothes, in tatters. There were dots of red on Deku's green shirt as the loser wiped his mouth and got dirt and dust all over his face.

“We hobbits... are plain quiet folks.” He spat. “Fights like these... nasty, disturbing... uncomfortable things... make you late for dinner!”

“Stop mumbling nonsense!” cried Katsuki, and hurled himself at Deku again.

At once his shoulder blade rang out in pain. His charge stopped: Katsuki fell to one knee, nursing the pain on his shoulder's hollow.

Deku had kept his promise to All Might: he was not slinging the ball at Katsuki directly. He was _throwing_ it like a baby would throw a toy.

… why did it hurt so _bad_? Was he using his quirk? No, scratch that, what was that quirk even about in the first place?

Katsuki bit his lip. Was this the exact thing Deku was taunting him about, that time in the restroom? No, that made no sense. Deku was hurt worse than he was. Deku was losing. Katsuki was winning. That was how it was going, yes? He needed only brace himself and go the extra mile...

He caught a quick breath. No, he wasn't losing. He was winning. Deku was backing off. Deku was running away. He could not let Deku run away. Must not!

Deku wasn't a brawler. If he'd been, there was no way he would be running away, right? All Katsuki needed to do was close the distance and he'd be finished...

***

Hardly had Ochako stepped on the first steps along the stairway when she heard what sounded like grunts in pain - _Bakugou_ 's grunts - and it was all she could do to tear her mind off the miniaturized speaker's broadcast. There, waiting above the stairs stood Iida, arms folded, helmet-concealed face impeccably poised towards the ascent. She could steal a glance at his direction as she tiptoed over the last steps, but one more step and he would see her for sure!  
  
But then her hand returned to the mini-speaker. The pad on her finger ran a circle around the marble-sized ball. _It's no shame learning from what Midoriya did either,_ she thought, and hurled the little ball in a tall arc so it rolled past Iida's feet.  
  
No sooner had the object sailed behind Iida - landing with a clatter - than it broadcasted a terribly savage _“DIE, DEKU!”_ echoing all over the remarkably huge room. Iida nearly jumped and spin around.  
__  
My chance! He was bending down and picking up the loudspeaker: just enough for Ochako to float-dash into the shadow of the nearest pillar, press her back against the wall and try not to breathe so loudly.  
  
In hindsight, she _had_ underestimated Iida's smarts. Hardly had she enjoyed a couple exhales and inhales in peace when his footsteps, heavy and menacing, began clattering in her general direction. Her heartbeat skipped; Ochako peeked out from behind the pillar only to see Iida standing a couple feet at most in front of it, hands at his hips, chest pushed forward, shoulders shaking in laughter.  
  
“Well, well, well, what have we here, a hero out to play!” he said with a chuckle. “Why, don't be shy, our house's open to all!”  
  
“How'd you know I was here?” she sounded out.  
  
“You reused our _equipment_!” said Iida triumphantly. “Never count on a true villain to be so stupid he doesn't know what fancy toy his comrades use!”  
  
Ochako pressed her cheek against the wall and her hand against her chest. _Well, I did try my best._ But then she steeled herself and clenched her fist. _No excuse! This isn't over yet!_  
  
“So, hero,” drawled Iida. “Shall we dance to the melody of ticking clocks? You have, oh, little more than one minute before this sinful little city goes boom!”  
  
He must have had too much fun doing this, gesturing as wildly as he was: overblown arm swings, extra-noisy engine revving that, swaggering footing and a cackle that came right out of old comic books. If she hadn't been on the receiving end of the taunt she'd even found his dramatic persona kind of cute.  
  
"Why don't you come out here and dance like you wanna win?" he said again, clapping his gloved hands. "You could make things fly, and I, well, I could run. We'd be perfect dance partners against the horizon of a city in red, ha, ha, ha!"  
  
“No thanks,” said Ochako. “I've got a bomb to take out!”  
  
“Oh? So amusing; you and whose army?” he said. “An armed force of useless and useless?”  
  
“Hey, don't be so sure of yourself, I've got a plan all lined up, a really really, _really_ good one!” she shouted. “Wanna bet on the outcome?”  
  
That being said, she _really_ didn't have much of a plan at hand...  
  
And then a massive, massive, _massive_ explosion erupted - from below, and from the speaker.

***

Bilbo bit his lip. Katsuki wouldn't let up – which was more or less exactly what Bilbo thought he would do. He only hadn't expected to take the brunt of it.

“Fucking _die_ , Deku!”

But at that exact moment he lifted his hand to cover his face, Bilbo's gaze wandered to the glittery liquid on the ground. Rays of sunlight piercing through the windows were glinting off the liquid dripping behind Katsuki. It led to a larger pool at that spot where his gauntlet had shattered.

A pool of dangerously nasty explosive liquid, exposed to the elements.

Realization hit him with the force of a rolling boulder. _Yavanna preserves us!_

It was all Bilbo could do to curl into a ball. His eyes caught a spark on Bakugou's right palm.. The spark turned into a flash. Flash, conflagration.

There was a boom that made the loudest of thunders sound like the mewling of kittens.

The blast tore Bilbo off his feet and sent him hurtling towards the end of the corridor. Bilbo's back hit the wall with a _thud_.

He stood up to a scene of devastation. Smoke and dust was everywhere. Brick and mortar were blown apart.

“Bakugou?”

No answer.

“Katsuki?”

No answer.

“Kacchan?”

Bilbo felt nauseous at the nickname he was spitting.

But whatever worked, worked. Behind the cloud of smoke and dust, Katsuki stood, dropping to one knee, arms drooping. Both his gauntlets were _gone_ , and his black shirt and pants were tattered, loose threads fraying in the wind. The invincible Katsuki Bakugou wasn't so invincible any more; laid low by his own explosion at an angle he didn't expect.

“You... bastard,” he hissed.

But that was not what Bilbo was looking at. There, above Katsuki, a very large slab of ceiling was creaking – visibly. Bakugou's eyes, obviously, wasn't on it.

Bilbo took the hugest breath he could, and set to do the only thing a hobbit knew to do. He wrapped his arms around his face, and tackle-rushed Katsuki. The corner of his eyes caught a flash in green and red and white across his forearms, and sharp pain shot up his arm only to be ignored.

His effort earnt him a massive blast in the face. It was much huger than it should have been, and whatever glass windows that wasn't yet shattered into a million peace now was. The blast tossed Bilbo several yards backwards like a croquet ball and tore through the sling-gauntlet like wrapping paper. A piece of burnt rubber sailed across Bilbo's cheeks, grinding it raw.

But there was smoke in his eyes: the slab of concrete had loosened, and there was a mighty _crash_ where Katsuki had been standing.

Had he done it?

Sure enough, the shard of concrete nailed into the ground like a broken stalagtite.

But Katsuki was not underneath it. He stood there, behind the fallen slab, blown back by the force of Bilbo's tackle and his own blast. His face was blank.

“Why...” he mumbled. “Why did you...”

Bilbo staggered up. He was sore all over, bleeding in places, burnt and bruised in others. Both his arms weren't moving at all. The pain was hard to ignore.

Katsuki was trembling upright. His teeth were grinding, there were deep creases between his eyes, and his tight fists were shuddering. The marks on his arms looked worse now, and resembled a bad burn rather than mere scratches. He was, unfortunately for Bilbo, still in a better shape: he could still move his arms, and he was winded rather than broken. If the fight was to go on...

“ _Time is up!_ ”

***

The last half a minute had been fun posturing for Tenya: boosting up his engine, changing gear and making it look like he was going to charge the pillar. Just _making_ it _look_ that way, mind you: Even as a villain, Tenya could not bring himself to _really_ hurt a girl, and honestly he was feeling bad enough just taunting poor Uraraka like that.  
  
“Useless! Useless! Useless!”  
  
If everything went right, he wouldn't need to lay a finger on Uraraka at all: he just needed to keep her pinned down behind the pillar until the timer ran out.  
  
On her part Uraraka was trying to taunt him back too.  
  
“Wanna bet on the outcome?” she had said, and Tenya was just shaking his head. Twenty five seconds. Now Iida wasn't a gambler, but that wasn't a bet he would take if he had been her.  
  
And then came the _massive_ explosion from below. It honestly felt like an earthquake: windows rumbling, glass cracking, mortar dropping from the ceiling, floor swaying and trembling. Tenya thought he was going deaf: pocketing the micro-speaker was the hugest mistake he had made!  
  
When it was over, the floor was practically ruined. The ground was cracked and shattered in places. Deep creases now ran along the ground, making even walking difficult and charging a real hazard. The pillars, thankfully, were largely intact.  
  
“Time to settle this!” Uraraka exclaimed, and at once Tenya's every muscle tensed. Was she going to just rush blindly at the bomb? At any rate, Tenya hurled himself at the bomb: he was faster and stronger, right? He could well try to keep the bomb from her and wait until the timer ran out - nothing had really changed, had it?  
  
But Uraraka suddenly emerged from behind the pillar, looked now so much calmer now than she sounded a moment ago. She wasn't rushing for the bomb at all, or even for Tenya. No, she was wrapping her hands around the helmet she'd taken off and leaned backwards.  
  
_What the-_  
  
The round, pink object went sailing through the air directly at him like a miniature cannonball. _T-too fast!_  
  
It hit Tenya square in the face with so much force it bounced off and staggered Tenya back. Tenua felt like he'd taken a nasty hook in the nose; his hands reached for his face as his eyes turned watery.  
  
He could hear Uraraka's voice by his ears, no, _past_ his ears. “Midoriya taught me this!” she was shouting. “When in doubt, _throw stuff_!”  
  
When stars stopped circling around Tenya's eyes, Uraraka had already vaulted cross-armed at the bomb, fast as a bullet.  
  
_Crap!_ What could Tenya do but throw everything he had at her?  
  
“Burst!” he cried, and leaped at her with all the speed he could muster, one hand still on the bridge of his nose.  
  
Tenya and Uraraka reached their hands for the bomb, one after the other.  
  
Horror gripped Tenya. Uraraka was a whole _foot_ ahead of him. Her fingers were so close, so close, _so close. How did it come to this?_  
  
“ _Time's up!_ ”  
  
Tenya's heart sank. They'd lost...  
  
“ _Villain team wins!_ ”  
  
Except they hadn't.  
  
And then Tenya realized just how and why. The announcement came a split second before Uraraka's finger touched the bomb. The poor girl floated down to the floor, hands dropping to the side. Even as her face was turning purple, tears were welling in her eyes.  
  
The hero team was one fraction of a second too late.

 

***

By the time All Might was shouting 'Villain team wins!', Shouto's fingers were fidgeting.

How could a battle fought by such mundane, underhanded way be so _exciting_? Well, to be fair, the bit at the end at least resembled a proper hero-villain fight (with the only issue being the villain actually trying to save the hero's behind at the end of it. The old man would have sorely disapproved.)

All Might was grinning and folding his arms – because the heavens and spirits forbid he did anything else. “Now, that has been all so dramatic and gripping, but it's time for critique and observation! What can you all learn from the last exercise?” he said. “Who would you think have done well, and who hadn't?”

“Eh?” exclaimed the shark-toothed spiky redhead. “It's not Midoriya?”

Shouto's lips twitched. How utterly naive. “No.” He said, despite himself. “Both Iida and Uraraka are tied for most valuable players.”

All Might was nodding repeatedly. “Very good, young Todoroki!!” he said. “More important question: why?”

An arm shot up next to Shouto. “Midoriya came up with a very good plan, but his implementation fell off the mark.” It was Yaoyorozu: calmer and more intellectual than he'd given her credit at first. “He paid too much attention to gloating and taunting that he put himself into danger needlessly. If it had been a real fight, with that setup and match-up, he would have been destroyed before he could have made more meaningful contributions.”

She pointed at the screen still showing a very sore-faced (and probably very physically sore) Bakugou. The man himself was off to the clinic, as did Midoriya.

“On the plus side Bakugou saw through Midoriya's plan, but it still took him a lot of precious time in a time-sensitive mission, and then he got carried away hunting him down instead of keeping his eyes on the prey. While he succeeded in subduing Midoriya, he was clearly blinded by personal grudge and failed to use good judgement – and needed to be saved by his opponent too.”

Now Yaoyorozu threw a very approving glance at Uraraka. “Meanwhile, Uraraka made the best use of the hand she was dealt. When an nuclear bomb is at stake, it simply isn't worth it to bicker what to do and quick thinking may spell the difference between a million deaths and a crisis averted. She did exactly the best she could have given her quirk and equipment; and would have succeeded had she been a little faster or the villain's quirk a little less unfair to her.” The brunette was blushing furiously now.

“Iida, too, did an excellent job as a villain: sticking to the plan, stalling for time, doing whatever he could to minimize the opposition's advantage and maximize his own. His only limitation is his unwillingness to hurt Uraraka – which is as good as a liability in actual combat, especially against a female villain who _is_ willing to hurt or kill.” There was a weird mix of shame and pride on Iida's face, and Shouto found that amusing. _Look like the class robot felt emotions too..._

As to the assessment Shouto found himself nodding exactly once. “That said, he also underestimated Uraraka and never saw the helmet-throw coming,” he said. “That's ironically so very in-character for a villain: throwing one's helmet is what a desperate villain would do, not what a hero would – or should.” _There's a reason why this girl made it to where she is._

All Might clapped his hands. “Very good, very good!” he shouted. “Now, I know you're all riled up after seeing the last round! So let's keep up the spirit! Next teams, are we ready?”

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes and Fanon:
> 
> \- The fifth type of shot in Izuku's gauntlet wasn't used as a shot at all in this chapter: Micro-speaker bullet.  
> \- I'm a terrible poet and can only explain the terrible quality of Bilbo's improvised song in-universe by claiming, well, it was improvised.


	15. Of the Meddling of Wizardfolk and Hobbitry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I missed the last week's update due to real life - many apologies for that!

**CHAPTER 14**

**OF THE MEDDLING OF WIZARDFOLK AND HOBBITRY**

 

When his name was called, Izuku almost dropped the pencil – only just held on by the tip of his thumb and pointer. His jaw got no such luck, and for the briefest of moments he must have looked quite silly.

But, again, only for the briefest of moment.

In fact, when Ori tapped him on the shoulder (“Master Baggins?” he said, voice full of concern) Izuku was sure he was smiling.

“My turn, Master Dwalin?” he said, and set the book and pencil down.

Izuku nodded. It was like All Might had said: heroes might not always win. They might not even return alive sometimes. They do, however, need to _always_ rise to a challenge.

“Yes, yours,” said Dwalin. “We haven't given our burglar so much training opportunity in the delicate dwarven art of hitting things very hard until they fall, have we?” The grin on his face was both hearty and mischievous as he handed over to Izuku a board and a stick. “Go on now, put that strength of yours where it would be appreciated.”

He walked up to the ring and looked at the sturdy warrior-dwarf, and decided it wasn't so bad. Indeed, it could have been worse. He could have had to fight _Kacchan_ in a training session. The thought was a nasty and uncomfortable one, and merely thinking of it made Izuku's left shoulder shudder.

The weight of the stick in his hand snapped Izuku out of whatever uncomfortable hypothesis he was conjuring.

“Remember which end goes where,” said Dwalin.

The elderly dwarf's gravelly voice harkened back to  _that_ night; and while Izuku could not remember anything so vividly as the three fallen rangers, his hand recognized the rough texture of a hefty stick and its weight. It was,  _no pun intended_ , a weighty sort of weapon; meant to crush and maim and therefore required the utmost of care.

He glanced back at the rank of the dwarves. Most were cheering, shouting or hollering. Oin the medic was waving particularly hard. “Long as you don't get too beat up, lad, I can fix you up all right,” he said. “Me bro's not the type to hold back a whole lot, training or no, so give him a good beating already!”

“Then I'll be in your care, Master Oin,” said Izuku, and stepped into the ring.

He looked Gloin in the eye, and gave him a nod. _Ready and waiting_ , he meant to say. It wasn't a situation needing a Symbol of Peace. It wasn't even a real fight. But again, what kind of hero would he be to not take every challenge seriously?

The first thing Gloin did was raise his shield and bang his big stick on the surface. “C'mon now ye lad,” he said. “Ain't got us all day!”

“I'm on it, sir!” he said and sprang at Gloin.

Izuku's brain was on autopilot for the first clash. He did know that Gloin started with a bash followed by a diagonal swing from right to left during the last match, but that was the extent of his knowledge. _The dwarven way_ , Izuku thought, and braced himself for impact.

To say _it did not go very well_ was an understatement.

Izuku's ears caught a loud _crack_ before his arm felt the impact of a shield bash. Not like he hadn't expected it to go that way – he just didn't expect its magnitude: he was pushed two steps back, his legs staggering, his head ringing. For his part Gloin was dislodged from his battle station, but just by mere centimeters – which he got back by a mere shift of his feet.

Now Gloin was standing there on his side of the ring, shield raised, stick concealed behind his turned side, unbreakable as a statue.

 _Wait_.

He took one tentative step forward.

Gloin inched towards him – only as much as one quarter-step. Izuku saw him cock an eyebrow behind his shield, doubling down on his defenses _again_.

Izuku turned and strafed a quarter-circle about him. Again, Gloin turned with him, just moving enough to align himself with Izuku's bearing.

_Like a dance and not a fight..._

“What, already tired, lad?” said Gloin. “You have all you need to give me a fair beating! Only matter is if you know how – knowing is half the battle!”

 _A little_ , thought Izuku _, but..._

Izuku launched himself again at Gloin, more slowly this time. He kept his eyes on the dwarf's right hand: his board caught a vicious downward swipe nearly exactly where he thought it might hit.

Izuku backpedaled just as the next bash came. Not nearly as fast or as nimble as he should have liked: Gloin's shield still slammed solidly into his own. Izuku almost tumbled over. _Need to work on my footwork, but_...

Izuku closed in once more.

_...I've got a plan._

His next attack was an upwards swing.

***

When Bilbo dragged himself into the clinic bed next to Katsuki, he'd expected trouble. Not to say there  _hadn't_ been trouble, of the sort personified in a hobbitish healer:  _“If you keep taking such abysmal care of your own_ arm _, not much of a point for me to do patch you up!”_ The medic with the body of a hobbit had a voice that matched, and reminded Bilbo of a version of his aunt Belba, except slightly less fussy and more medically inclined. 

Outside the clinic, Recovery Girl was uproarious. Bilbo could only hear All Might's voice from here, shaking and apologetic. Something about  _letting your students get hurt in a lesson_ and  _you should have stopped them_ . 

To be extremely fair on All Might, Bilbo thought, could he have done that? All Might, after all, was too far away when Katsuki was in the middle of his bloodlust. Everything had taken place so quickly and brutally.  _Because it was_ Katsuki, and Katsuki was brutality incarnated _._

Except now said  _brutality incarnated_ was more like  _stoicism incarnated._ All the while, Katsuki had said nothing and not moved at all. 

He was lying there, arms crossed behind his head, eyes fixed on the blanched white ceiling like it contained all the knowledge to be had in the world. His silhouette against the clinic curtain was uncannily unsettling. Bilbo thought he was looking at a magical statue of a sort: standing guard over a barrow long since ruined; now dormant and silent, yet could rouse and soar to life any moment now should an adventurous spirit come too close without leave.

Bilbo was not unafraid of stirring and turning in his own bed. He'd known Katsuki better than he should have liked. From the knowledge of such like Bilbo thought it unwise to expect any less than screaming and shouting (and maybe a threat or two to beat him up, explode his face, murder him brutally and throw his bloody remains off a tall building, not in that particular order) – when (not if) Katsuki should wake up.

But he'd been waiting and waiting and waiting for almost an hour now. Katsuki hadn't moved a one muscle. Never had he ever been so quiet, or so – for want of better words –  _down_ . It was an almost peaceful picture, if it hadn't been so melancholic.

_Have I overdone it?_

No, Bilbo told himself,  _I have done nothing wrong._

Or maybe it was because of Katsuki's poor ranking in the exercise?

Perhaps. Katsuki wasn't used to losing so badly. He wasn't used to losing at all. 

A fledgling realization stirred within Bilbo, something in Katsuki had seemed  _broken_ and it was hardly defeat alone – had it been the case there would have been shouting and swearing and explosions, not silence.

Regret, perhaps? Bilbo would think all the apologies in the world wouldn't have helped if he had bodily hurt someone he had  _known_ (and that included any Sackville-Bagginses too) as badly as Katsuki had done.

But Bilbo was Bilbo, and Katsuki was Katsuki. Bilbo wasn't sure if any part of Katsuki had even realized he had hurt his childhood friend quite bodily this time. Or, if he had, whether the deed had bothered him at all. After all, if Bilbo was to trust Izuku's notes, Katsuki was just about to actually _beat the poor boy up_ that day their friendship ended.

Much as that spiteful part of Bilbo would love to laugh and tell the boy to his face he  _deserved_ it, the greater part of Bilbo correspondingly desired to be the greater man. He ended up asking himself,  _what could I do to help_ , and realized there wasn't much he could do. Only thing anyone could help now was to mollycoddle Katsuki or his bruised ego, and Bilbo certainly wasn't up for it.

So Bilbo left Katsuki alone.

Instead he spent his time look at the white sheet underneath him and the white ceiling over his head and the white curtain on either side, as though he was encased in so much snow. In fact, he was just about to start on a rhyme or two when the silhouette next to him stirred.

“You...” 

Bilbo looked to his side. Katsuki had sat up while he was busy with his rhymes. He had not thrown open the curtain, his spell of lethargy yet to fade. His sitting shadow stayed there for an unnaturally long minute.

“Why did you save me,  _bastard_ ?”

Bilbo sighed. _Of course that'd be the first thing to come to his mind._ “Why would I _not_ save you?” he asked. It was the first thing to spring to _Bilbo's_ mind, and also the most sincere.

“Hit your head someplace hard, Deku?” growled Katsuki. “Villains don't save people. All they do is wreck places and then get wrecked by the heroes!”

“Curious; here I was thinking _you_ would be the one who hit your head someplace hard,” said Bilbo. “Why should I be a villain?”

Katsuki didn't answer. So Bilbo drew inside a little, and tried finding an answer that would sound most like what Izuku would say. He settled with “You aren't the only one who want to be a hero.”

No answer came but for a throaty growl. Bilbo paused for a second, and thought of another answer. “Besides, it would be a shame if you'd missed dinner because of some unfortunate concussion, laceration, puncture, fracture or such like.” _Nutty the way I like it._

Bilbo could almost hear Katsuki's eyeballs rolling. “Dinner?”

“I told you,” said Bilbo. “Fight like these are nasty uncomfortable things. Makes you late for dinner.”

Silence fell upon the room like a curtain.

And then said curtain snapped open without so much as a warning. “Are you fucking mocking me?”

“I might be,” said Bilbo, and he had to stop himself from laughing out loud. Katsuki was making himself too easy to mock. “Since you had no liking for a straight answer, after all-”

Katsuki slammed on the iron headboard. “Don't you  _dare_ make like you're  _smarter_ than me, Deku! We both know what a weakling, useless, lying sack of shit you are!”

Bilbo steeled himself. _Think him Lobelia, and behave accordingly._ So he drew a very deep breath, and quietly prayed to the Green Lady that Izuku would forgive him if he had made the wrong choice. _Because I can't not say this_.

He gathered all the air about him in a steep breath.

“Are you done shouting yet?”

Katsuki froze in his bed. Good. Though Bilbo wasn't very good at showing anger, he could do the part of a stern governess as well as any respectable women of the Baggins clan. 

He felt Katsuki's glare piercing through the curtain, and somehow it made him braver than he should have been. At once there was no Izuku Midoriya within him nor desire to so impersonate. There was only Bilbo Baggins whose Tookish half had taken over, speaking on behalf of the child he had fostered.

“Katsuki Bakugou,” he said. “All these years I have accorded you  _nothing_ but the kindness of my heart and the hospitality as befits my upbringing. And how did you repay it? With spite and violence and such lack of courtesy as would make a troll blush (if they do blush at all)!”

“Grew a spine, huh, you damn nerd-”

“I. Haven't. Finished.” 

Katsuki drew back from the curtain with only a “Kuh-” from his throat.

“I don't mind very much how you would think of me, nor is it very relevant,” he said. “We could still be on good terms if you so wish. We could be no friends if you so desire. Or be foes terrible and unforgiving if you so incline; I can do that too, though it would brings me little joy.” 

The immaterial pressure Bilbo felt on his person faded. Bakugou was looking away now, and so did Bilbo. No use trying to look in the eye (not that the curtain helped in the first place) of someone who wished not to return a civil discussion.

But Bilbo was not done talking; he rapped on the headboard for emphasis. “What I cannot do, is leave someone in need without lifting a finger to help,” he said. “That's not the hob- that's not my way.”

“Don't you fucking dare act like you're so  _morally superior-_ ”

“I dare not,” said Bilbo. “But I dare to be  _decent_ as far as decent folks go, if you will. You are welcome to take it or leave it,  _Bakugou Katsuki_ , but you won't keep me from doing what is right.”

“What do you know about being  _decent_ , you fucking  _liar-_ ” 

“Please,” Bilbo said, cutting off Katsuki for the third time. “Do keep telling yourself that. If it helps you sleep better at night.” 

Then Bilbo did what he was told: Keep quiet. Katsuki went on a rant for another while: his voice was so angry still, but so much more lethargic too. Made it a little easier for Bilbo to swallow his anger inside.  _Let's be the better man_ .

Without an audience Katsuki quieted down surprisingly quickly. And why wouldn't he? Bilbo had let him have the last word – if that would help his bruised ego any. Maybe it was for the better. It wasn't as though there was nothing Bilbo could say about that.

Until they both left the clinic at the end of the day, neither spoke a word to the other. Not when Recovery Girl gave them both _yet another_ earful. Not when Uraraka hovered over him asking if he was alright while Katsuki hissed. Not when they parted way at the gate without any fanfare whatsoever.

But Bilbo produced his phone and wrote “ _Pray never call Katsuki 'Kacchan' again,”_ and hoped Izuku would not thwart him.

He hadn't finished typing when Katsuki turned around. There, his back against the setting sun over the cityscape, Katsuki's voice rang out, fierce and terrible like the howl of a wild wolf in the chilling winter gale.

“I'll be the strongest hero ever, who never loses! Just you wait, fucking  _Deku_ !”

***

A growing pile of coins had heaped up inside Bofur's cap.

First it was just Ori and his two copper coins on the hobbit lad. Then it was Kili and a very hesitant Fili, the one on the hobbit, the other on Gloin. Then it was Bifur, dropping in ten coins while mumbling in Khuzdul about hobbits having no respect for proper dwarven ways of war - “Gloin,” he barked. Then came Dori and Oin, each supporting their respective brother. When Dwalin finally tossed in another handful and said “Gloin”, it was all Bofur could do not to empty his purse.

 _Now this is what you call gambling_ , he thought and added _only_ a dozen coins into the betting pool.

“The hobbit takes it,” he said, precisely because he agreed with his brother: This was not a dwarf-duel at all, and not quite a scuffle with orcs and goblins either.

The hobbit was running circles around Gloin, like baiting him to attack. Gloin was patiently waiting and hiding behind his shield, moving only when he needed to move – to block or to parry, or to throw a counterattack that never seemed to connect. That was the dwarven game plan: wait until the opponent would tire themselves out and then go for the kill.

Except the hobbit wasn't moving around at random – not any more. Bilbo Baggins was focusing his entire remarkable strength and agility on the Gloin's _knees_ and the lower half of his shield. “ _Dishonorable scum,_ ” mouthed Bifur, but Bofur knew better. There was more honor lost in losing than winning through less conventional means.

So absorbed, indeed, as they were in the sparring, it was only when the corner of Bofur's eyes caught a great grey cloak sweeping down behind him that he realized the audience was no longer a crowd of dwarves exclusively.

“Gandalf,” he said, but the wizard – because who else could that grey cloak have belonged to? – merely raised his hand, gesturing him not to make a huge deal of it. The wizard had thought a little too highly of himself, as the case seemed: most of the dwarves did catch a glimpse of him, but gave him only a cursory glance and nod before returning to the so much more exciting duel on hand.

Not that Gandalf seemed to mind too much. The wizard sat down behind Bofur, and there was a sliver of light in his eyes. “Doesn't seem to go very well for our dear hobbit, is it?” he said.

Bofur shook his head and twirled his mustache. “Doubt it,” he said “The burglar fights like a burglar should.”

Bofur couldn't tell for sure if the wizard had figured it out yet, but dwarves almost always went for the upper body – head, neck, shoulder or arm. Axes and picks were meant for downwards or at most sideways hacking. Even the job every dwarf was supposed to have learnt as a child – swinging pickaxes for gold and gem – involved downwards arm motion almost exclusively.

Not even a seasoned warrior-dwarf could unlearn that habit very easily, if at all.

Now Gloin had just managed to block another _very_ strong blow aimed at his kneecap. The impact staggered him, and the whole arena roared. Staggering Gloin was no mean feat, even if it was through hitting under the belt.

But then came a _thwack_ , and it was Bilbo's turn to be sent flying back. Big mistake not withdrawing from range while Gloin was still regaining his footing. There was now a very deep dent on Bilbo's shield: if the sticks were real axes the flimsy board would have sundered.

Amidst the cheering and shouting Bifur's ears still made out the distinct noise of coins hitting a pile. He cast a sideway glance at their makeshif betting pool: Gandalf had just chucked a handful of silver coins struck with the symbol of the dwarves of Moria into the upturned hat.

“For the hobbit,” he said amusedly. 

“Durin's beard,  _Tharkun_ , for real?” he exclaimed. “'Tis Khazad-dum coins – you don't  _find_ these easily no more!”

“I see nothing wrong with a good bet for a good sport,” said Gandalf.

While some of the dwarves had taken to oogling the newest addition to the betting pool, both combatants were panting. It spoke measures about the hobbit's tenacity that he was standing toe-to-toe with Gloin of all people in a battle of pure attrition.

Now they both moved, each raising his shield and circling the other one step at a time. Every step they took screamed _crunch time_ : the next attack would decide it.

Then they jumped nearly at the same time: sticks and boards raised, and with a mighty “ _Du Bekar_!” on the one side and “ _Detroit Smash_!” on the other, crashed into the other.

It was a forceful lock if there had ever been any: Master Baggins' stick caught on the lower half of Gloin's shield, and Gloin's on Master Baggin's, just inches from his face. At first it seemed like they'd keep pushing and pushing and pushing some more until either would give way.

That wasn't the case.

Then suddenly Gloin's back foot soared. That was the moment Bofur learnt that his distant cousin Gloin had more tricks under his sleeve than just axes all day everyday: with a turn of his body at a breakneck angle he kicked at the hobbit's stick arm, locked low enough that it was well within reach of a leg-snap.

 _Thud_ went his foot.

Realization and pain dawned on the good Mr. Baggins' face, one after the other. Then, dismay: his stick had left his hand, sailed off in an arc and very nearly landed on Bombur's head. He backed off, just to see Gloin's stick pointed at his face.

“Do you yield?” said Gloin, his voice as rugged and gravelly as ever.

What could the hobbit do but raise both arms in defeat?

Bofur was groaning – and so was mostly every dwarf who'd put their money on Mr. Baggins.

The wizard, on the other hand, was smiling.

***

_Hobbit. Hobbit. Hobbit._

Katsuki had been mumbling to himself all along the way from the academy main building to the campus gate. He wasn't having a cadre around him now, and ironically it made him felt a bit more at ease with himself. Had he got a half-dozen crew of hangers-on like he used to, he might have blown a fuse. Or worse, been driven to do something he would deeply regret down the line.

_What the fuck is a hobbit?_

Most logical answer was, some kind of made-up... thing, that Deku imagined to feel better about himself. Long ago Katsuki had thought – because it was the most reasonable thing for a seven-year-old's mind – that Deku had some sort of a story-making quirk; amusing but ultimately useless. Why tell stories when you could blow all your enemies and all your problems away with explosive fists, and have people tell stories about you instead? 

But then the slime villain attack happened, and Katsuki hadn't sure any more since. In fact he hadn't been so sure for a year now: no matter how he looked at it, Katsuki the invincible had been laid low. Vulnerable. Helpless. In need of rescuing. No amount of praise could have healed his bruised ego – _Amaterasu_ Herself could have descended and told him how great he was, and it wouldn't have helped. Suddenly all that was certain had become so uncertain.

But there was one thing he was sure: the word  _Hobbit._ He had heard it then, that word that let him have a moment of respite before he'd choked to death. Whoever said that word had saved his life. 

Could it have been _Deku_ of all people to have come to help him then?

No, it wasn't possible. Deku might have the cunning, but he wasn't suicidal. Besides, he didn't have any reason to save Katsuki, did he? If the roles were reversed...

Good question. If the roles were reversed, would Katsuki have done the same? Would the thought of saving someone who'd caused him little more than suffering and belittlement have ever crossed his mind?

He'd never thought that way. Never wondered what it was like to be without power. Never spared a second, not one, that fate could have as well gone in the other direction.

Unless of course, Deku was belittling him. Yes, yes, that had to be the reason, right? Useless Deku wouldn't try saving anyone unless it made him feel better, right? Unless it made him feel _superior_ , the quirkless _fucker_ , right?

_But what about just now?_

Katsuki pressed his fingers against his temples; cold sweat was soaking his back. It was a very large, jagged, pointy slab of concrete. The mere thought of what _would_ have happened had Deku not pushed him aside made him tremble to the bone. Katsuki never thought he would be so afraid of dying young, until it came knocking – only to be turned away by Deku of all people.

Katsuki was not stupid. There was a difference between being proud and arrogant, and being stupid. Oh, no, he wouldn't admit it, but Deku _had_ saved him from a whole lot of pain – and maybe a bit of that nasty _dying_ thing. He wouldn't admit it, sure, nor would he offer anything in the way of thanks. That made him feel weak.

And there it was, the salt to the wound: a certain something he'd taken for granted all his life had suddenly vanished.

He'd gotten so used to sniveling Deku, swooning Deku, useless childhood-friend Deku who never called him anything _but_ the affectionate nickname _Kacchan_ , that when Deku stopped doing _all_ of that... it felt like a punch in the face he had not think possible.

How had it come to this? How did a _Deku-shaped hole_ have any right to bother him so much?

But then he shook his head hard. _No, no, no, fuck you, you damn nerd._ A hero did not care about how others thought about him. A hero just _was_. Win. Never lose. Smile. Smirk. He just had to work harder, harder, _harder_...

“Well, there you are, young Bakugou.”

Katsuki looked up, and the child deep inside him shuddered so very hard. There at the gate awaited All Might, standing abreast in his full glory hands at his hip and grinning the way only the Symbol of Peace could.

 _What the fuck are you doing here_ was what Katsuki very much wanted to say.  Point one, it would hardly be _proper_ swearing at a teacher without provocation. Point two... it was All Might.

And point three, his answer came barely a moment later. “Been waiting for you for a good while here, I have!” All Might exclaimed. “I,  _ahem_ , apologize for not seeing you off from the infirmary! Got some particularly pressing matters to attend to!”

Katsuki being Katsuki, he only shrugged one shoulder. “Like I should care?” he said. “If it's more groaning about not being properly heroic or too reckless or  _almost getting yourself killed_ , then save your damn breath.” He flinched a little inside. So much for not swearing at All Might. “Not like I don't have  _ears_ and not like they aren't bleeding already-”

All Might merely raised a brow. “There's a time for scolding and disciplining and critique, and it isn't now,” he said. “Thought I want you to know you did extremely well what you're good at.”

Katsuki blinked once, then twice, then thrice, then looked up at All Might with gritting teeth and quivering lips. 

“Eh?” he drawled. “What's this all about? Sarcasm ain't gonna work that way, old man.”

Once upon a time that sort of drawn-out, guttural growling would have had his old teachers cowed. But All Might, well, All Might was All Might, the hero who smiled in the face of grievous threats and win. 

“Think I was being sarcastic, didn't you?” he said. “No. The class didn't see it, because your... failing was so obvious it blindsided most to how well you managed what you are good at. Bad with teammates. Bad with reading the surrounding when you're riled up. Bad with avoiding collateral damage. But take that away...” A  wincingly  mighty hand fell on  Katsuki's shoulder . “Tell you what, young Bakugou.  _I_ would not have been able to tell young Midoriya was hiding  _below_ you rather than above when you found him out.”

“Save your praise,” Katsuki snapped. “Not like I found him out at once or anythng. Just that... just that I've gone through the torture of  _hearing_ that annoying voice so often-”

It was literal torture, too, if Katsuki was right and it really  _had_ been Deku who saved him from the sludge villain way back. 

“But I think otherwise,” said All Might. “Have you ever thought that there is more to being a hero than winning battles?”

“Now you're just mocking me,” said Katsuki. “Can I go now, or shall I degrade myself further hearing you yap about what I already – fucking –  _know_ ?”

Without waiting for an answer Katsuki turned around and took another step towards the gate. He had to go fast, too: his sober side was starting to catch wind of the fact that he had just literally insulted All Might to his face.

In fact, he was starting to feel  _fear_ out of having spoken something so foolish – and was half expecting he'd be stopped, by a grab of the wrist or a slap in the face, or worse.

He was. But not by force.

It was All Might's voice: booming still, but much lower than it normally was. “I read your files, young Bakugou,” he said. “Amazing quirk. Spotless academic record. Pride of your school. That sort of thing. People must think you're lucky, or amazing, or both.”

Katsuki did not look back. “Yeah, and?” he said.

“I don't think so.”

Katsuki's feet froze. “Like I care?” he said; but deep inside the doubt and fear had reared its head again, and  _damn it_ he really needed a place to hide now before he'd say something he would regret later-

All Might's voice did not change. “Has it ever occured to you that your quirk might have blindsided you to what you  _really_ can do?” he said. “I'll say this right now: You're amazing.” Katsuki turned back and saw All Might's smile having all but vanished. “But not in the way everyone think you are.”

Butterflies fluttered in Katsuki's gut. Katsuki didn't quite like butterflies; those in his gut least of all. “The hell?” 

“Heroes are more than the sum of their quirks,” he said. “In this line of work, nine time out of ten it's _how_ you use what quirk you have that matters, rather than what that quirk is.”

Katsuki's eyelids twitched. “Oh, right, now you can tell me all about my personal life like some third-rate detective because oh, you _read all my files_.”

Katsuki had fully expected to take a some-American-city-or-another-Smash to the face for the insolence. But All Might's patience seemed limitless. He merely stopped for a moment and gather his thoughts. 

“You're right, young Bakugou,” he finally said. “I don't know about your personal life. What I do know is how you acted. Based on what I saw... I think your old school has done you a grave disservice, convincing you that your quirk – and yourself by extension – is all about _literally_ _beating other people_.”

Katsuki couldn't say the thought had never crossed his mind. He just had never, well, thought too much of it. “Well, what bloody else could an explosion be used for?” 

“You tell me,” said All Might. “If your goal is not beating other people but to  _save_ people... surely you can think of more than exploding whatever comes your way as hard as you can. An explosion could as likely kill someone as it could help remove rubbles and save those victims trapped underneath it” His smile returned now, kindly instead of flashy. “I think you're going to be a great hero, and that has nothing to do with what your quirk  _is_ . You know why? Because you're smart and sharp and quick witted when your head is in the game, and you can tell anyone telling you otherwise to talk to All Might about it.”

Katsuki could see 'being patronized' from a mile away. But he could see 'being praised' from two. The hero of his childhood was standing there, who  _still_ was his hero, and he was praising him. Fuck, what the hell am I supposed to say now?

So he said nothing. But he did look up when All Might looked at him and nodded and said, “Come, young Bakugou. Show us your creativity. Your sense. Your smart.”

Deep inside Katsuki was screaming at himself.  _Bow down_ .  _Say thank you_ .  _Or fucking cry because you're so damn teary now._ Except Katsuki would commit ritualistic suicide before he let anyone see  _that_ side of him.

“Well, young Bakugou, don't cry now,” said All Might, grinning like he was congratulating Katsuki, not berating him. “To be a hero is not about never failing, but about never letting failures keep you down. Stand up high!”

Katsuki wiped his eyes, but hell no he wasn't crying. Tokyo was just so goddamn polluted and dusty this time of day.

***

In hindsight, Izuku did not mind the defeat overly much. It could have been worse, he could have blown up his arm.

He carried his optimism and smile into lunch with the dwarf, and the story-telling that followed. It was a great lunch by all means: roasts and forest berries and fragrant drinks, plentiful salad for those who wouldn't mind it and dwarvenly sausages for those who would, heaped on a large oblong table in a wooden hall beneath the elves' roof. Izuku would admit Lunch Rush's cooking had already so outclassed his mother's, but this? It left them both so far behind in the competition it wasn't even fair.

Now that he was actually prepared for the demanding dwarves, he realized how much stories he had under his belt if only he would look. And what better story to start with for befriending dwarves than that one video that made Izuku _the_ All Might Junior?

So with all his enthusiasm – which was quite a lot more than Bilbo would have showed – he got all the dwarves around and about him. He recounted that burning apartment and the blur of red and blue that flew into it, and gestured wildly as he put on his best All Might impersonation. “And he said, ' _It's all right now! Why? Because I AM HERE!_ ',” said Izuku to a crowd of wide-eyed dwarves.

He did, of course, omit the part where not everyone in that building survived – because all good stories deserved embellishment, right? Right?

When he finished the story, Kili and Fili were oh-ing and wow-ing. Gloin was clapping and Dwalin nodding. Bifur was saying something unintelligible. And Oin was scribbling feverishly into his notebook.

“Now if only we had that sort of hero back on _that_ day!” cried Nori. “Woulda saved us lot so much wandering!”

“Would be helpful if we'd had him today!” said Bombur. “Mighta even take on the dragon head-on and win!”

The wizard was merely raising his brows and smiling – and clapping so quietly. “Not all those who wander are lost, Master Nori,” he said. “And dragons, Master Bombur, are best fought with wits and not swords, although it would be an uncertain business either way!”

Then amidst all the uproar he stood up, walked over to Izuku and spoke with a voice so low only Izuku could hear. “That reminds me, Mister Baggins, my dear sir,” he said. “I should like to speak with you – in private. When you're done, of course.”

In the end, the dwarves asked for more stories from than the wizard had patience for. Izuku had not been done with the story of Kamui Woods getting kill-stolen by Mount Lady when the wizard roused, twice as tall and thrice as imposing as everyone else in their

“Quiet now, my good dwarves!” he said, not without a fair bit of crossness in his voice. “I would like to borrow the good hobbit for a moment, there you go. That's a good company! Now if you'd allow us-”

The wizard took him out into the yard, to a tea-table of white-oak underneath the shade of a very old birch a fair distance from the dining-hall. He kept his walking-stick about him, and his long pipe with it: hardly had he sat down when he started blowing many a fluffy smoke-rings steadily rising to the afternoon sky.

Gandalf gestured towards the opposite chair, and Izuku sat down – not without apprehension, mind. “Something on your mind, sir?” he asked.

“All in good time, my good sir,” said Gandalf. “Let me congratulate you for a match well fought first of all! You certainly are a hobbit of many talents.”

Izuku blushed a little. Many talents? True, if Gandalf could somehow merge Izuku and Bilbo into one, but that was just so blatantly _unfair_.

Besides, it wasn't like Izuku had won. “I lost you some money didn't I?” he said. Bofur was shooting him dirty looks throughout lunch – when he wasn't too absorbed in the story-telling, that was.

Gandalf tipped his hat with a kindly – almost merry – smile. “Ah, but to an old wizard a few old coins isn't very great of a loss,” he said. “Besides, when you should head out for an adventure it is prudent to expect to lose much and gain something else in return!”

“Maybe you're right,” said Izuku. After all, wasn't that the reason Bilbo had left in the first place? Part wanderlust, and part goodness of his heart? And speaking of an adventure... “When are we leaving?” Izuku asked.

“Why, my good hobbit, do you mean to ask exactly when we are leaving? Or that you would like to stay for a while longer and don't want to leave just yet?” the wizard said. “Or do you mean the idleness has gotten to you so much you should want to set off as soon as we can?”

Izuku blinked. “Maybe all at once?” he said. The wizard's wit wasn't so _out there_ now that he'd grown used to him, but that didn't mean Izuku wouldn't lose Gandalf some of the times.

“Indeed so?” The wizard nodded sagaciously. “And for your information, the correct answer is, 'when we are prepared'. Treacherous are the roads ahead, and even Thorin has learnt not to let impetuousness get the better of him.” His eyes twinkled beneath the brim of his hat. “In fact, that brings us to the exact topic I wish to discuss! I might have a favour to call on you, my good sir.”

Izuku clasped his hands, and a smile came to his lips before he could think. “How may I help?” he said.

“Splendid,” said Gandalf. “I was wondering if you would be partial against supper tonight.” He paused, and glanced at Izuku. “With myself and Master Elrond, and perhaps a few other persons you might want to see.”

It was all Izuku could do not to let his smile fade, because what kind of hero in training would do that?

Not that he did not care about Elrond and the elves – the contrary, actually. Given how many books in Bilbo's study (with the late Belladonna Baggins' name on it) were on the specific topic of elves and their customs, Bilbo would think the same, too. It was just that the offer came out of nowhere.

“What is the occasion, my dear sir?” he asked.

“Master Elrond has a particular... interest in our expedition,” said Gandalf. “This much is no secret among his kin, though the dwarves yet know of it. He wishes to address those who would be of importance to the expedition, and from what I know insights is not all that he would lend to our cause.”

“Then I suspect Master Thorin would be at the table too?”

“Thorin?” said Gandalf. “I don't think it very wise at all to let him in on this current matter.”

Now a huge warning bell was ringing within Izuku. “Why not?” he asked. “I thought Thorin should at least know-”

Gandalf straightened his pointy hat. “There are matters that do not concern the dwarves yet, you see,” he said. “Do not get me wrong! All shall be divulged to them in good time and neither a minute early nor late. Especially one that concerns _you_ instead.”

A second warning bell. “Me?”

“Master Elrond has apparently seen you quite interesting,” said Gandalf, “and he knew your mother and her extraordinary personality quite well a while ago. At any rate, you would find him quite a pleasant gentle-elf, and far less of a menace than the dwarves would have you believe!”

Somehow that didn't make Izuku relax in the slightest.

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes and Fanon:
> 
> \- I put an extended conversation between All Might and Katsuki here, and separated it from Katsuki's swearing at Izuku as happened in canon. The goal is to have early development for Katsuki and get that butterfly flying already, and make it as in-character for both as I can given the development in the last chapter, and driven by the fact that Katsuki has been acting a lot smarter in this timeline than he does at this point in canon. This, in turn, leads to All Might pointing out that he could have done so much more by using his quirk *smart*. Let's see where this butterfly would lead to, aye?
> 
> \- I've thought over and over again about the outcome of the Gloin vs Izuku training match, and have come up with no fewer than three different versions of the ending. It's a matter of course that Izuku doesn't win, the question is how he loses and what he learns from it. In one version I had Dwalin shouting out to him that he needs to use the rest of his body more, and that had seemed good until I realized that this would have invariably led to Izuku learning how to properly control OFA ahead of canon. That would be bad for both flow and plot alike. That's why I settled with this version, and hope it works well enough.
> 
> \- In hindsight, it's impossible for Elrond *not* to smell a rat...


	16. The Heart of Mothers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter's up.
> 
> A quick reminder: I consider all of my stories, including this one, to be a process rather than a product. As such, the content can and will change to respond to comments and criticism, with a view to make it as close to perfection as possible. This, of course, would only be possible if feedback is provided. So don't be shy, tell me what you think and I'll see what I can do about it!

**CHAPTER 15**

**THE HEART OF MOTHERS**

 

“I'm home.”

Bilbo's voice rang along their apartment's hallway as he took off his shoes. Normally he would be met with a “welcome home” or two, because Mrs. Midoriya was rarely not at home when he was done with class.

Today he heard no such words.

For but a moment the quietness gave Bilbo some semblance of repose; as normally she would proceed to throw at him him a flurry of questions about his life, school, health and everything in between. Whether he was doing well, was the gist of them all.

Bilbo had never much liked to talk to Mrs. Midoriya at all, for twofold causes. One, he had not very much that he could openly share with her without unnecessarily complicating Izuku's situation (and by extension his own), and lying to someone like Mrs. Midoriya would leave an immensely poor taste in any decent hobbit's mouth.

And two, it was immensely awkward – for Bilbo. What was she to him, again? Definitely not a mother, and certainly not a spouse. A more apt term would be “co-parent”, dotty as it sounded.

To her credit in that capacity Mrs. Midoriya had little Bilbo could hold against. Bilbo had thought from day one that she reminded him of his own mother, and that was a tall order. Mrs. Belladonna Baggins was the best mother a fauntling could have ever asked for, and Bilbo would start a fist-fight with anyone claiming otherwise.

It wasn't at all that she was in the know about Izuku's bizarre circumstance; quite the contrary. It was precisely because she did not understand, she did not know, she was not in the in, yet she chose to help however she could anyway without asking too many questions, that had helped Izuku and Bilbo make it as far as they had.

But now Bilbo took two steps along the corridor, and his serenity vanished. There, at the threshold to the kitchen, stood Mrs. Midoriya leaning against the doorframe, arms folded and eyes intensely anxious, and at once he shivered.

“Izuku,” she said. “Can we talk?”

The words chilled Bilbo to the bones. _Something is dreadfully, terribly wrong!_

“I-I suppose we can, mum,” he said, because what else could he say?

He followed her into the dining-room, and sat down across the table from her. A concerned mother was an immensely uncomfortable thing to look at – admirable but uncomfortable, for it was always her wont to demand answers that you might not be willing to give. In no time Bilbo found himself looking at the table instead of Mrs. Midoriya.

It seemed forever before she began speaking. “Izuku,” she said. “Is there something you haven't told me?”

“I'm sorry, mum, I'm not sure I understood the question.” said Bilbo, rapidly blinking.

“You haven't told me much about your school,” said Mrs. Midoriya. “You've been there for more than a week and met a lot of new people... and you haven't told me much about them. Why?”

“It's U.A., mum,” he said. “Best school in the country, almost like a knightly or- I mean, a military school.” Keeping himself from floundering was not easy at all; Bilbo shrugged his shoulder and tried smiling in the way he thought Izuku would when he was being awkward. “So lots of secrets and matters of need-to-know-basis.”

“I know that,” said Mrs. Midoriya. For a long while she said nothing, but when Bilbo looked up he could see her bite her lips. “Why aren't you telling me you got your arms hurt – _again_?”

“I... well, I didn't think it very important,” Bilbo said honestly – and it was so honest only because he did not think very much of or about it at all. The damage was fixed, there was no lasting harm, and more importantly Katsuki Bakugou was taught a lesson he wouldn't soon forget.

“But of _course_ it's important!” exclaimed Mrs. Midoriya. “You – hurt – your – arms!”

Bilbo sat there, stunned. A comparison had come to him so naturally: would he have expected his own mother to react in much the same way?

_Yes. Yes I would._

“Izuku, they called me today,” she said. “Said you cracked both arms in a training lesson, and it's all good _now_ and they've got the people to patch you up nice and easy, but-” Her voice trailed off, and her gaze became more intense. “Schools aren't supposed to do that, are they? You're not there to get- get hurt. Are you?”

“I guess not,” said Bilbo. Because there was nothing else he could say about that, was there?

But now more old memories flooded back into him. Many were those tales Mum had told him of her own adventuring days, running about the Shire and causing the Old Took all sort of worriment.

 _“You see, Bilbo, they always end well, my adventures, and for long I didn't quite fathom the anxiousness._ 'What worrywarts!' _I'd tell myself, when your Grandpa fussed over or raised his voice or kept me going out from that door of his for a month. Took me a happy marriage and a little faunt, before I realized – that's just what parents do.”_

“Izuku, are you sure... are you sure this is what you want to do, to become a hero? Whatever the cost to your wellbeing?”

 _“I suppose that's why I married your Dad.”_ Bilbo could recall, this would be the part he'd get his hair ruffled. _“Because after a while, adventuring isn't_ worth it _any more.”_

“I am sure, Mum,” said Bilbo at long last. Izuku would probably have hesitated far less and be more passionate in his pleas, but that was something Bilbo simply could not do.

Because Bilbo and Mrs. Midoriya was of one mind on this matter. Izuku's wellbeing would be far better served in a quiet study full of books and songs, from all corners of the world or of his own making.

_But he wouldn't be happy that way, would he?_

_And what's the point of being respectable if you aren't happy about it?_

_***_

They called the master of the Last Homely House 'Master Elrond' or 'Lord Elrond' – like one of those fancy British peers, or a _daimyo_ of old sitting cross-legged with a sword rack to his back in a weekend _Jidai Geki_ show.

Bilbo's note called him, and Izuku quoted, “ _A veritable king of a realm however small in all but name._ ”

Given the choice Izuku would go with Bilbo's version in a heartbeat, and tried thinking what it would be like to gear himself for a supper with _a king_. Not that he had much of a choice: Bilbo had packed little in the ways of fineries, for obvious reasons. The suit he was wearing was fraying and missing buttons, and Bilbo didn't bring many spares.

But that was a matter until later. For the rest of the afternoon, he had the dwarves to keep his company. He joined in their songs and cajoling and playing of the viols and trumpets; if only as an audience. He didn't say anything about Gandalf's offer, and answered all questions with a smile and a “It's nothing, pray don't mind!” like Bilbo himself most certainly would say in his stead.

Surely, thought Izuku, that should be the end of that.

In hindsight, certain dwarves were not to be underestimated. It was hardly sunset when Izuku heard the loud, low rapping of a dwarf-knuckle on his door.

At the doorway stood grey-haired and grey-bearded Balin, tipping his hat. “May I?” he said, with a courteous voice that made it impossible to cordially refuse. “Got a certain matter I wish to discuss with you, soon as I can.”

Izuku steadied himself and drew a steep breath and smiled. He had nothing to hide – yet.

“Certainly, Mr. Balin,” he said, and opened the door wide.

Balin seated himself down at the drinking table, and wasted no moment clearing his throat. “I'll be quick, lad,” he said. “But a little bird told me Gandalf must have asked _something_ of you. I'd bet all my savings – and I do have a good stash of gold and gems saved up, I'll let you know – that it has something to do with the elves”

Izuku's smile evaporated. “How did you know?” he said.

“Pah, the _Tharkun_ has always been a mite too friendly to elves, that much is no secret.” “Not a very proper or pleasant thing, but we try to tolerate. After all, we still need him, and he does appear to have our best interest in mind if not at heart.”

“That's not a very nice thing to say, with all due respect,” said Izuku.

“Sure it isn't,” said Balin. “And believe me, none would be happier than I am if it turns out at the end Gandalf is a true friend of dwarves. But we have to be cautious, you understand. Being a dwarf means you can't afford to trust anyone too much, even if – and especially when – they have come bearing gifts and promises of friendship.”

“You _have_ been trusting me all right, Master dwarf.” Izuku pointed out. “What have I done for you that Mr. Gandalf hasn't?”

“But you're different,” Balin said. “You're a hobbit; and I mean this not as an insult, lad, but have you ever heard a hobbit committing grave treachery and murder? No, I don't think it is in your kind's nature to commit wicked deeds without good reason.”

Somehow Izuku doubted that – hobbits were just people, right? That meant there would be the good and the bad, right?

Argument at this point, however, would be unwise. After all, Balin _had_ come to him with goodwill, hadn't he? “Suppose I was going to meet up with some elves,” Izuku said instead. “What should I be expecting?”

Balin's face turned grave and solemn. “Was wondering about that myself, my dear lad,” he said “Elves are altogether manipulative and not to be trusted, and just when you thought you've had them figured out, _bam_ , they pull something out of their posterior and catch you in a vise!”

“Not even their king? The one who took us in without asking for anything in return?”

“Not until you offered, no,” said Balin. “Lord Elrond seems quite a fair bit more trustworthy than the _other_ Elvenking we know – curse his name. But that hospitality might belie darker motives! he could try a whole lot of underhanded tricks – make you do his bidding without pay, for one thing, or turn you against the rest of the company for the other, to whatever dastardly end he sees fit.”

Balin lowered his voice to a bare whisper, and gestured Izuku to lean closer – which he did. “Whatever you do,” he said, “accept no deal from them that doesn't specify gold or gems as payment! Otherwise they can so easily weasel their way out, and I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemies!”

***

Gandalf had knocked at his door well after dusk, and then took him along the torch-lit covered corridor that wound along and over the river flowing underneath the city. At one point they were so close to the waterfall, foams glistening under the moon, that Izuku thought he needed only raise his arm and he'd touch it.

Turned out it wasn't such a fancy or gaudy business at all. Lord Elrond's dining-room was a tall and well-lit room beneath curved roof, framed by white wood and grey stone. The whole place was altogether less impressive than U.A.'s cafeteria, in size and in light, and the very air seemed to impart a distant melancholy to all present.

But the greater part of the atmosphere was bright and cheerful. The small oblong table set before the fireplace was illuminated by many torches on the wall, a candelabra in its middle, and a roaring flame in the hearth. The table itself was a simple business, with but four sets of cutlery, four glasses, four napkins, and a small menagerie of food: roasts and bread, ale and berry juice, and many plates of salad. The aroma was sweet and pleasant, not at all overwhelming as Izuku had thought a king's banquet ought to be.

The great elf himself was seated at the tall wooden chair carved with wondrous patterns, wearing a blue robe and crowned by a silver tiara. He was tall even as he sat, but his countenance was gentle. He stood up as Gandalf and Izuku entered the hall – standing he was taller than Gandalf, and perhaps taller than even All Might.

“Mithrandir,” he said, “and of course Master Baggins. I bid you welcome to my hall, humble and diminished as it has been.”

“Still as splendid a reception as ever, Master Elrond,” said Gandalf. He gestured Izuku to take a seat – which he did. The formality was stirring up butterflies in Izuku's stomach again, but he endured.

Hardly had he sat down when Elrond leaned forward and picked up the bottle of fine red wine sitting next to the candelabra.

“I've got some fine red wine to your liking,” said Elrond, “from the vineyards of Dorwinion itself.”

“From that way?' said Gandalf, quirking his great bushy brows. “I don't suppose they came with an emissary? From King Thranduil, if we are blessed?”

“Indeed,” said Elrond. “Thranduil sent his regards and well-wishes, though he _regrettably_ said he would be of scant help to the dwarves. Not, perchance, as much as we should have liked.”

“That is ill tiding indeed,” said Gandalf. “I had thought I had him well persuaded. After all, he might have taken the lessons of the Grey Elves of old to heart and wished to seal his real away... but his heart is in the right place and I had thought his nobleness enough to offer a hand.”

“You have done all that can be,” said Elrond. “I might have certain disagreements with him, but at this moment I cannot fault him much – his hands are full and tied, and unless help would come from unlikely places the best we can ask of him is to safeguard his own realm and not let the Enemy deprive us of an ally.”

That exchange set the tone for much of the first course: the wizard and the elf-lord discussed very little that Izuku found useful or even familiar. They spoke of said Thranduil, first with displeasure and then with sympathy. They spoke about a place called Dol Guldur and how Master Elrond was making preparations to attack it. They spoke, too, of Smaug the dragon, and at length discussed hypothetical means a dragon could be slain in their day and age where the force of good had been so _diminished_.

Izuku was twitching in his seat: what was the point of inviting him to supper at all, if the only thing they were doing was to talk to each other about businesses that did not involve him?

It suddenly dawned to Izuku: He – or rather Bilbo – was _meant_ to hear all of that. The implication was obvious the more he thought about it: for better or worse Bilbo had become quite popular among the dwarves, and therefore in a position to meddle in their affairs in such way as would be suitable for Master Elrond's designs.

But then the topic moved on to an ominous swell in goblin and orc numbers far to the West beyond that which was normal in those parts. At this point even Gandalf ceased making jokes: his voice was grave and frustrated, and he downed red wine in much larger gulps than before.

“I cannot help but suspect something is afoot, far direr than we are used to face,” said Gandalf grimly. “And if it's hard enough convincing Saruman of a renewed shadow in the North-”

“We shall endure, Mithrandir,” said Elrond. “It is unlike you to speak with so small hope.”

“Do I?” said Gandalf. “Perhaps that is why I find company in the hobbit-folk of the Shire. Because they bestow me hope where my own no longer suffice.”

His eyes turned upon Izuku, and at once the back of his head was burning with such intensity it was all Izuku could do not to start mumbling like a boy possessed.

“But of course, Master Baggins,” said Elrond. “Let us speak – Mithrandir had told me much of poor Belladonna's wondrous son.”

***

The silence ill suited Bilbo. It had been barely two minutes, maybe less, and already Mrs. Midoriya's pleading eyes were making him grievously uncomfortable. The stuffiness was killing him like a noose around his neck. Now Bilbo was sitting there without budging a muscle, but had he half a chance he would have bolted out of the chair and dashed off to the nearest place where the sun shone and the grass grew.

In the end, Mrs. Midoriya broke the silence of her own making.

“Don't you want to say anything, Izuku?” she said. “Anything you want to tell me? Any at all?”

Now Bilbo stuck a finger behind the straps of his school-bag and thought hard. Mothers, after all, would know when their child was hiding something. Bilbo wasn't Mrs. Midoriya's child, but for the moment the spell every mother had was on him. And if he could choose, he would rather not lie. It would feel like he was lying to the ghost of Mrs. Belladonna Baggins, who had never wished for anything but the best for her only son.

Bilbo dug hard into that part of his psyche labeled _Izuku's most likely thoughts_ , and summoned all his courage to look Mrs. Midoriya in the eyes.

“What should you like me to say, Mum?” he said. “That I should quit U.A. because of a few injuries? That I should give up trying to be a hero? That I should let go of my dream after _finally_ grasping it in my hands?”

“I don't mean it that way!” said Mrs. Midoriya. Her voice fell low. “I want to _help_ you, Izuku. As your mother-”

“I know, Mum,” said Bilbo. “As do I. I want to help you too.”

Those words that escaped Bilbo were not the wisest, nor the most calculated, nor the most well-thought, but certainly the most sincere.

Mrs. Midoriya blinked. “Help _me_?”

Bilbo nodded. He had said those words before, different the context might have been. There was much difference, after all, between a hobbit boy who ran off all day on endless games on the open green and a too-selfless hero-candidate boy who ran off all day breaking and cracking limbs for what seemed to be the right thing.

But behind those words there was always a _boy_ , fundamentally good yet prone to be distracted. There was always a boy, and there was always a concerned mother, worried and proud all the same.

“I want to be a hero, Mum,” said Bilbo. “And now that I've had my ticket, I... don't think I could do otherwise. But I can help you still. I'll do my best to lessen your anxiousness.” He lifted his eyes from the table. “I'll... take better care of myself, so you won't have to worry so much about me any more!”

It seemed almost trite and dull a thing to say, but Bilbo had meant what he said: because that was what he would like to hear Izuku tell him, and what his own mother would have liked to hear from him back in those days he spent traipsing all over the Shire slinging rocks and climbing trees. And often the force of sincerity was all you needed to add that persuasive edge to your pleas.

For long Mrs. Midoriya sat absolutely still, staring at Bilbo.

When the silence broke, it was followed by _extremely_ teary eyes. “I... I don't know,” Mrs. Midoriya said. “B-but maybe you're right. We'll... we'll work something out, shall we?”

What could Bilbo do but to smile?

“We shall,” he said. “I promise I will take good care of _me_ , Mum. Promise!”

Bilbo could not lie to Mrs. Midoriya. He could only twist his own word.

That was exactly what he did.

***

It was a rough, nasty, harrowing exercise in deflecting questions. Especially those Izuku had no knowledge, no context, and only so much hint to go about with.

“I recall the first time our dear Miss Belladonna Took came along,” said Elrond. “She was a fair guest and particularly bright far as a hobbit-lass of her time, and a little too curious for her own good.”

“I... suppose she was,” said Izuku, frantically racking his brain for any mention the hobbit might have made about his mother. “It must have been a very long time ago, wasn't it?”

“Seventy-three years,” said Elrond. “You weren't born then, of course. She did not come back very often, as is understandable for your kin, but whenever she did there would have been much to discuss.”

Curiosity roiled within Izuku as a million questions took shape – a million questions he _really_ should not ask for a variety of very obvious reasons. He finally settled with, “When did she last come by?”

Elrond raised a brow, and Izuku's heart skipped a beat. _Wrong question to ask_.

“I thought you should have known, my good hobbit,” said Elrond. “It was a while after you were born, I recall.”

_I made a gaffe. I made a gaffe. I made a huge gaffe. Bilbo's going to kill me!_

“I... don't think I remember too well of it,” said Izuku. “I must have been a kid back then, and-”

“That much is true,” said Elrond. “After all, poor Belladonna did not stay. She asked only for a small collection of books she could work on for the rest of her days. Because she'd said, and I quote, ' _I've had a most respectable husband and a most respectable-to-be child that any hobbit lass could have ever asked for!_ '.”

“That... that does sound like her,” said Izuku, wiping his forehead.

The elf-lord was still looking at him most curiously. Well, warmly, and then curiously, but Izuku wouldn't appreciate the warmth right now.

“But you didn't end up being as normal or as respectable as she would have like, did you?” Elrond said.

Izuku narrowed his eyes on reflex. “I beg your pardon?”

“And _I_ beg your pardon too, Master Baggins,” said Elrond. “for being far too curious than would be appropriate. I meant no offense.

“Still, it is a fact that you have not been a very _normal_ hobbit. You'd taken Mithrandir's – Gandalf's – offer without much resistance. You'd left home on an adventure without much of a concern for how your neighbours would have looked upon you. Nor had you much given to anxiousness over the dragon, who far likelier than not sits at the end of this journey, death on wings as he is. Nor, of all thing, had you thought overly much about giving up part of your own share in treasure at a whim to appease the dwarves, perennially suspicious as they are.”

“And poor old Belladonna, may Elbereth guide her to places beyond, might have well trembled at the sight of three mountain trolls, not pick up a weapon and fight them.”

“Would she?” said Izuku, for want of anything more impactful.

“Like I said, I hope I am not being insulting I any way, my dear Master Baggins, but you have proven yourself hardly the respectable gentle-hobbit (by gentle-hobbit standards at any rate) as your mother thought you would be.”

“I'll try to take it as a compliment,” said Izuku, staring at the napkins.

“It _is_ a compliment, Master Baggins,” said Elrond, drawing back on his chair. “In all honesty I am not uncurious, and would appreciate it too if you would at all like to let me know why – respectable hobbits are not likely to do what you have done.”

Now what would Bilbo possibly to say about that?

“Could I... could I keep the answer to myself?” he said. “There's a certain, uh, personal reason why I do everything, and, well, one thing leads to another, and suddenly those dwarves, I don't think I could have not helped them, and- and- and-”

Izuku couldn't hear his own voice now, having vanished into a mumble as it had.

“Why, Mr. Baggins, please do calm down and take heart,” said Elrond, and there was a dash of amusement in his voice. “Do let me remind you that you are among friends, no matter what the dwarves might have said.”

The real reason was not about the dwarves, but how could Izuku have admitted that? “I- I see,” he said, grabbing the water goblet on his side of the table and took a gulp.

Elrond did not speak again until well after Izuku had drank and wiped his mouth and curled into a figurative ball. Izuku would take what break he could have.

“I think that is well enough, my lord Elrond,” said Gandalf. “Obviously – _obviously –_ this fine hobbit has matters he wish to keep to himself.”

“ _Obviously_ ,” Elrond repeated. “And I shall respect that. Though I would have much better liked it had you divulged exactly _what_ had motivated you to do what you did. I should like to trust you with a very large favour (which I shall recompense in time), and I should like to affirm I have trusted not the wrong hobbit.”

“The good hobbit has my full confidence,” said Gandalf, as if it was unquestionable. “You have heard of his exploits, surely.”

“I have,” said Elrond. “The real question is, are you willing to hear a suggestion of a sort?”

Izuku's mind had only calmed down enough to confirm the nagging thought at the back of his mind ever since the afternoon: of _course_ the elf-lord would have had something to ask of him; why else asked him to join his supper in private?

“Please go ahead, sir, I am listening,” was all he could courteously eke out.

Elrond smiled.

“It is no secret to you that yours is a most harrowing quest,” he said. “The journey to the Lonely Mountain alone is long and hard enough, yet even at its worst the hardship would pale compared to the danger waiting at its end. I wish to abet your company in all ways I can, because you are doing me a great favour in turn, and as it would be the right thing to do. Supplies and guidance I have granted, and perhaps I should like to grant some of my very best, armed and armored equally in the very best that the High Elves could furnish even in these days of our twilight.”

That sort of offer sounded good. In fact, almost too good – as in 'how could anyone turn this down' good.

_Unless... Balin is right!_

The thought made Izuku shudder a little. “You fear the dwarves would not accept your help.” he said. “It was hard enough getting the dwarves to agree to lodge in your home as is. They don't trust you.”

“Precisely,” said Elrond. “There are long quarrels between our kin, and particularly foolish one too, that dated long back before Thorin Oakenshield's grandfather's grandfather was born. Quarrels that, may I add, were inaccurately quoted and therefore provided poor wisdom.”

Elrond sat upright, and his gaze shifted to the aged mural on the wall, as though inviting Izuku to peruse it.

The image was no longer very clear, weathered and covered in darkness, but it was a most fascinating painting all the same. A host of elves, mounted on saddle-less horses, bearing so many banners with suns and stars emblazoned, was riding across a vast plain. A huge, craggy mountain, black as the night and sinister as it came, sat at the background. Faded words in flowery elf-letters ran up the side of the mural, of which Izuku could only read a few: “ _Nolofinwe Noldaran_ ”.

It must have been quite a moment before Elrond looked back at a still-confused Izuku. “This mural was drawn many centuries ago,” he said. “Here is the host of Fingolfin Nolofinwe High King of the Noldor, marching upon the fields of Beleriand _six thousand years ago_.”

Izuku could feel his ears ringing. “S-six thousand?”

“Six thousand,” said Elrond. “And yet quite a few of us walking in my hall today had been there then, under banners so splendid, against the great foe of that age.”

He had to regain his initiative. “I see,” said Izuku. “I still don't see how that is relevant to the dwarves and their grudge.”

“The point is, Master Baggins, we _Eldar_ forget neither what had transpired nor how they had come to pass, for our lives are long and our records well-kept,” said Elrond. “The dwarves have no such luxury, though not for want of effort. The loss of their great cities over the last Age had caused much of their history to be lost too. They filled in whatever gaps with embellishments, from one generation to the next, until their myths and legends became so far divorced from history as to do themselves a disservice-”

Izuku's brain started revving up. _It is quite a roundabout way to say 'the dwarves don't know what they are talking about'..._

“Pardon me,” he said. “but I thought you were going to ask me for a favour of a sort?”

“I was,” said Elrond. “Like I said, I have many things I can do to assist the dwarves, but they would not have it. It is only fair that I pass whatever help that can conveniently be so passed, to the one member of the Company who the dwarves _do_ trust, and who wouldn't turn away from it. That means you, Master Baggins.”

_That... makes more sense and less sense than I thought it would. At the same time._

“So you want me to be the emissary,” said Izuku, “to help the dwarves in ways you cannot?”

“In so few words, yes,” said Elrond. “I can provide you certain arms and gifts from my own store, and of course knowledge as far as I can give them. All I ask in return is your best efforts so that the quest would be a success.”

_Ah, there it is._

He should take the middle ground. “It's quite a burden, isn't it?” He paused, weighing his words. “And for such a burden, it would be fair if I asked for something in return, wouldn't it?”

“My dear Mr. Baggins, you are not – you are not seriously demanding _payment_?” Gandalf narrowed his eyes. “My good sir, I doubt it's a good idea to-”

“Well, maybe _payment_ is a bit... crass and unheroic,” said Izuku. “But I would think I should get some sort of recompensation.”

Elrond was unfazed. “Interesting, very interesting indeed, Mr. Baggins,” he said. “I don't know what prompted such a demand – your mother herself had been very unwilling to ask for recompense on those few times she did us a good turn.” His smile was still warm and kind, and more than a little curious. “To use a very dwarven turn of phrase, name your price and I'll see what I can do.”

Izuku exhaled hard and emphatically. “I want some explanations, if you could give any.”

If Elrond's voice was not full of amusement before, it was now. “Oh? What sort of explanation?” he said.

It was not very hard for Izuku to present a case. All he needed to do was to turn up the volume of his usual mumbling.

“You see,” he said, “the more I think, the less sense your assistance make. You have nothing to gain whether the company succeeds or not. The dwarves dislike you – doesn't matter if they're justified or not. They aren't going to give you any, uh, money even if they succeed in reclaiming the mountain and killing the dragon.”

Izuku paused, and maintained eye contact still: Master Elrond was nodding so slowly.

“And yet you go out of your way to lend them assistance,” he went on. “Even the most trusting person would wonder _why._ I'm sure the dwarves would think your goodwill is entirely because you want them to owe you a favour of a sort, that you can call on at your leisure and their loss some time down the line.”

“And what do _you_ think about the offer, Master Baggins?”

“It depends on your answer,” said Izuku. “Why do you do this for us?”

Izuku held his breath as Master Elrond exchanged a glance with Gandalf. Then they both nodded in wordless agreement.

“Very well then,” the elf-lord said to Izuku. “I shall tell you the truth, not all of it – for there are mysteries in the world I would not wish to burden you with. But enough for you to make an informed choice of your own.” He pushed the plate of berries closer to Izuku. “I do beg your patience – it might take a while, so pray help yourself...”

***

It was not an easy story that Master Elrond was telling the hobbit. It _never_ was an easy tale to regale, especially when the Enemy and the many great tragedies of the Eldar were involved. In fact, Gandalf would have liked it if Bilbo never had to learn of those stories any more than he needed to.

But Master Elrond was doing a good job telling a truncated version of the old tales. In fact, he did not say much at all about how the Shadow came to be, merely that it had been there during the darkest hours of the world, that the greatest champions of their ages could only just banish it, and that it was coming back, slowly and weakly at first, but surely.

Bilbo Baggins, bless the good hobbit, was drinking in every word. Once every so often he would nod profusely, steepling his fingers. His eyes were so animate now, in part like a curious child and in part like a brave hero about to set off on a grand quest.

Bilbo Baggins had changed, Gandalf noticed, and they hadn't even properly begun their quest yet.

“Now Smaug the dragon,” said Elrond, “is a monster, but not _any_ monster. He was spawned of the brood of the great black dragon in the North in those dark days. He is as much a terribly nasty creature as he is a weapon of war. The fire in him is most terrible of all the fire drakes who survive to this day – he alone annihilated an entire city like a child would knock down a sandcastle If the Shadow gets ahold of him – and why would it not try? Then it would gain a fell and terrible weapon to unleash upon the Free Peoples. Can you imagine what would happen then?”

Bilbo's face was going white. “If that is the case,” he said through gritted teeth, “why not attack him with all you have?”

“Because we have too many places to defend and too few to do so,” said Elrond. “Smaug is not the only weapon in the hands of the Shadow. Legions of orcs and goblins and trolls multiply in the dark recesses of the world, and many an evil Man too pledge their fealty to the darkness in the East. As to orcs and goblins, you need only ask Thorin and his Company.”

Now a great darkness fell upon Elrond's brows, and at once Gandalf knew what he was thinking. “If you do,” he said, “keep in mind this: Thorin and his family are not the only ones who had lost loved ones to goblins.”

Elrond Peredhel had never quite recovered from Celebrian's departure.

Now Bilbo was fidgeting in his seat. “But why the dwarves of all people?”

“Because oft heroism and heroic deeds come from those least likely to perform them,” Gandalf said. “Thorin and his Company were not the only ones among the Free Peoples to think of confronting Smaug – but they were the first to go beyond mere thinking. I would hardly choose an army of a thousand over these thirteen brave dwarves, though they may not look so much to you yet.”

Now Bilbo Baggins seemed to think very hard. He was staring at the table and furrowing his brows, and for a moment Gandalf was direly afraid the Baggins side of him would win out; after all, it was so normal for a hobbit faced with something so grave and terrible to opt for flight over fight. Indeed it would not be until a hobbit had precious things to defend and protect that he would take a stand at all...

But Bilbo, bless the hobbit, now looked up. His fists were clenched, and there was a sort of resolve in his eyes that was both admirable and out of place: determined, yet entirely boyish.

“I'll do it,” said the hobbit. “I... I don't know yet what's needed of me at the end of the day, sure, but having heard all that, I can't just sit there twiddling my thumb and do nothing to help, can I?” His voice faltered a little. “I... don't think I can easily persuade the dwarves, though. They seem quite set in their ways-”

Elrond's posture relaxed, and a smile came back to his face. “That, my good hobbit, would be a matter for another day,” he said. “For now, there's someone I need you to meet.” Then he turned towards the elven-maid standing in wait at the tableside. “Tell Halbarad I have need of him.” She bowed and curtsied, and then shuffled out of the room.

Not a moment had passed when a great cloak swept into the dining hall: There stood Halbarad the Dunadan, grim and rugged of countenance, bowing before the lord of the Noldor.

Bilbo almost jumped off the seat. “Y-you are-”

“Master hobbit,” said Halbarad. “Our paths crossed again.”

Bilbo looked like he was swallowing an immense lump down his throat. “Master ranger,” he finally said. “It's... good to see you again.” Whatever was going on in Bilbo's head, it must have taken him all his self-control to keep down.

Elrond nodded appreciatively.

“Young Halbarad had told me all about how you heroically fought against the trolls that night, Master Baggins,” he said. “In a way, he is convinced that he owes you and the Company his life – more you than them, mind.”

“I... don't deserve the praise,” said Bilbo. “I couldn't save-”

“You couldn't have,” said Halbarad. “I did not know then, Master Baggins; but now that I knew you had never been a real fight before, it would have been unreasonable of anyone to expect any more out of you.”

Bilbo fell silent for a long while. When he did speak up again, his voice was more cautious, more wary... more _teary_.

“I... I see,” he said. “I'll not fail you again! I swear!”

“Swearing an oath is a grave business, Master Baggins,” said Elrond quietly, “and has ruined many a great elf. I am sure young Halbarad appreciates your kind thoughts as they are.”

His warm gaze washed over the room, and for a brief moment no one spoke a word.

Then Elrond drew himself forward. “At any rate, Halbarad had been asking me for an opportunity to repay his debt,” he said. “I have only good things to say about his quick wit and quicker hands; and the tracking skills of a Dunadan ranger would be far more useful with your Company than with the rest of his kin in Rivendell. Would you arrange for him a place in the Company, so he could soon start contributing to its quest as a member?”

Bilbo seemed to sink entirely into his thoughts, for ten seconds, then twenty, then a full minute. When he lifted himself out of his pondering, his eyes were blazing and his voice steeled.

“I... well, I won't say I _can_ , but I'll try,” he said. “Master Halbarad, it would be my pleasure!”

“Excellent,” said Elrond. “Now, as for other businesses...”

The discussion continued until late. In truth, supper was hardly enough time: between the four of them they'd discussed everything pertaining to the Misty Mountains and the journey to come.

In particular, that meant what kind of dangers to be expected (“Thunder-battles might happen, but if we choose another path we could avoid the gruesome business altogether,” said Halbarad), how many orcs and goblins and wargs to be expected and where (“Very many,” said Elrond, and that was all that needed to be said), what kind of equipment to be brought along (“some quantities of _lembas_ , good ropes, and grey cloaks if we have any,” was Gandalf's suggestion). And most importantly, how to appease the increasingly paranoid and angry dwarves (“I'll think of something,” said Bilbo, and though his voice was a bit shaky he did seem to mean what he had said).

Altogether, after all had been said and done, Gandalf's optimism was peaking. Now it did not matter if Saruman the White would again veto his plea to launch an assault against Dol Guldur: at least one half of Gandalf's plan would have a very good chance of succeeding now.

And so Gandalf left Master Elrond's hall on that quiet night, like nothing out of the ordinary had happened, knowing full well it was like the calm before the storm.

Well, nothing out of the ordinary, except one thing at any rate: Just as Bilbo was about to leave the hall, Elrond called him back. He looked Bilbo in the eyes, and gave him a most sympathetic tip of the head.

“ _Your_ mother,” he said, “must be very proud, wherever she is.”

Then Elrond turned around without waiting for an answer. “Good night, Master Baggins,” he said. “Elbereth Gilthoniel guide your path.”

Gandalf could not have been the only one to hear the change in the elf-lord's intonation.

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes and fanon:
> 
> \- Apparently, Balin had never heard about Smeagol, hence the extreme trust in the goodness of hobbits.
> 
> \- The last bit Bilbo told Inko, in Japanese, is (probably) "Boku ga watashi no sewa o shimasu", ergo, using two different pronouns to subtly refer to the fact that Bilbo is not Izuku.


	17. Two Matters of Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ignoble schedule slip was brought to you due to some IRL issues and Prophesy of Pendor 3.92.

**CHAPTER 16**

**TWO MATTERS OF TRUST**

 

“How're you holding up?”

It might not have seemed much, but Midoriya had taken Shouta's advice, and Recovery Girl liked kids who listened to their elders. Now the boy was sitting there, initially looking at his palm on his laps while Recovery Girl fetched her notes to the clinic's front table.

It was now the third time he'd paid a visit to Recovery Girl's clinic after class, for general checkup, consultation and medication.

The boy looked up at her question, his hands closed into fists. “Not too bad, Ms. Recovery Girl,” he said.

“No side-effects? No rashes? No loose bowels? No muscle pain of any sort or sudden drowsiness?”

Recovery Girl's first inquiry was always very by-the-book. That had been true for the last couple sessions with Midoriya, that was true this time.

“Not that I know of, Miss,” said Midoriya, and Recovery Girl respectively ticked off a few bullet points from her notes.

“Right,” she said, glancing over her notebook.

The boy now seemed more cheerful – his lips was curved into something like a smile – but only marginally.

And who could have blamed him?

It was probably never an easy thing, sitting in a clinic after everyone had been long gone from class, doing what was essentially ten years' worth of Quirk counseling rolled into one. Even without the additional caveat that his was an inherently dangerous quirk to himself, clinics had a way of making people uneasy. Ghost-white bedsheets, ghost-white curtains, Recovery Girl's own ghost-white blouse, and the faint smell of disinfectants in the air hammered in a message: _something is wrong with you and I'm here to fix it_. 

“I suppose you haven't been using _it_ again after the last time?”

Midoriya shook his head. “I stopped as soon as, well-” Poor boy shuddered a little.

“Unfortunate, that business,” said Recovery Girl. She jotted down a few lines into her notes. “Good to know you're following instructions.”

The boy kept his head down again, hands tightly clasped. “Um... what should I do now?” he asked, almost absent-mindedly.

“Ah, yes, the result,” said Recovery Girl. “Would you like the good news first, or the bad?”

Midoriya gulped, as if asking, _There_ is _bad news?_

“Uh... whichever is fine, Miss, really,” he finally said.

“Alright then, here's the good news,” said Recovery Girl. “The conditioning is working along nicely. So long as you keep eating well, sleeping well, exercising well and of course try out your ability _within control and reasons_ , your body shall steadily get used to this... wondrous quirk.”

Izuku blinked fast and there was now a shine on his face. It made the announcement all the harder to make. But Recovery Girl was a doctor, and, well, that meant making hard announcements to patients _and_ students alike.

So she braced herself, placed the notebook on the table, and looked the boy straight in the eyes. “And here's the bad,” she said. “The conditioning process might take longer than you'd probably like. _Much_ longer.”

The outburst must have died in his throat before it could begin.

“How long exactly, Miss?” he asked. His heart was already sinking.

Recovery Girl shook her head, as if to say ' _I know what you're thinking and the answer is no_ '. “I'd give you a decade – give or take a year or two – before your body would grow fully used to your power,” she said. “It _is_ a wondrous quirk, you see, and not all things wondrous are _good_.”

“But-”

Recovery Girl raised a hand. “To be a little more positive,” she said, “the adjustment time would depend a good deal on your own efforts too. Might take five years or even a little less if you push yourself, though as a doctor I can't recommend the _pushing yourself_ part.”

“Is there any way I can speed the process further?” Midoriya asked, and he looked about to jump from his chair. “All Might-”

Recovery Girl groaned inside. Here, she thought, was a splendid example to the wisdom that too good an influence might be as harmful as a bad one.

“All Might would have to _wait_ ,” she said. “You're just like him in the hasty department: can't keep the poor sod glued to the sick bed long enough to recover nice and clean, even back in his good old days.” She folded her arms in front of her, and leaned back on her chair. “I say blast it, Japan isn't going anywhere with or without him. It isn't like villain attacks are as big a threat _now_ as it was a couple decade back.”

“But there _has_ to be something I can do, right? Right, Miss?” Midoriya's voice was altogether _made_ of haste.

So Recovery Girl did the only thing she could do: harrumph and make sure she spoke as slowly and clearly as possible, her age be darned. “I say... use your imagination, young man,” she said. “It's not like you're a stranger to the 'less is more' philosophy to quirk.” 

The boy's shoulders fell.  _Did he get it?_

“Anyway, I heard Mr. Aizawa say a good deal of nice things about you and your ingenuity.  _Lad has a good head and a good heart_ , that sort of thing. It sounds hardly like himself to praise anyone, that Aizawa, if you asked me. My point is, if you're as good as he says you are, sure you can find some way to make do with  _less_ , now can you?”

For a while there was no sound in the room except ragged breathing and the silence of Midoriya's internal cog turning. Finally he stirred in his seat a little, swallowed hard, and looked up once more.

“Are there any... specific guidance you could give me, Miss?” he said. “I... I don't mean to impose, but...”

“Well, I was going to give my suggestions anyway – like I said, don't be too hasty!” she said. “Let's see... anything that strengthens muscles and bones should work; so that means red meat and calcium and Vitamin D and specialized weight-bearing exercises, again with moderation. Most importantly, try not to sleep too little or exercise too much. A week hospitalized will undo a month's progress, you know. Slow and steady wins the race, that sort of thing.”

Midoriya kept his silence, but his eyes suddenly became more animate. Those cogs of his must be turning even faster now.

“Oh, and as for equipment? The gadgeteer friend of yours has the right idea. Bone and muscle support is all you need for a couple years; because I can't see any villain harming you worse than you can yourself.”

“I thought the same, Miss,” blurted Midoriya. “Hatsume really knows what she's doing!”

“Buy her lunches or something,” said Recovery Girl. “I can see you working with her a _lot_ in the future.”

Midoriya said very little from that point on; though he did give her a very polite “Thank you, Miss,” and a correspondingly polite bow before leaving the room.

_Well-mannered lad deserves so much more._

It was long after Midoriya had left the room did Recovery Girl draw a long, relaxed breath.

_One patient down. One to go._

She turned around to a bed at the corner of the room, walled by curtains, and threw open said curtains.

“Well? Had fun eavesdropping, _All Might_?”

***

Toshinori lay uncomfortably on the white-draped bed behind the white curtain. He was supposed to be sleeping or at the very least resting.

He was doing none of the sort.

Instead he had been listening to the conversation outside, his heart aching as he did. It had been all he could do not to cough despite his _incredibly_ itchy throat and lungs. A million things were going on in his head: A lot of anxiousness, mainly, and no small amount of disappointment either.

_Ten years._

Toshinori might be the Symbol of Peace, but he was not so saintly as to be above certain calculations either. Recovery Girl's revelation might sound helpful to young Midoriya and in his best interest, yet at once all Toshinori could hear was the sound of his plans crashing down all about him.

His succession could not wait ten years.

He was getting weaker by the day, and his time in his Symbol of Peace form was growing thinner, little by little even without him pushing himself any. It wasn't simply his ailment; One For All simply wasn't supposed to be held by more than one person at a time. He would only grow weaker and weaker... while Midoriya wouldn't necessarily grow stronger – at least not at the same pace.

A dark, repressed part of him really, really wanted to point fingers and put the blame on _someone_ ; if only to feel better about himself. The heroic part of him stomped down his darker self like crushing an ant.

 _It isn't young Midoriya that failed me – it's_ me _that failed him-_

And then the curtain opened with a _sweep_.

“Well? Had fun eavesdropping, _All Might_?”

Her voice was triumphant and almost accusing; like a schoolteacher seeing through a little boy's lies. It was the kind of tone that could make All Might feel horribly guilty... any day, but today.

He dragged his feet out from the cubicle, and followed the school nurse to her desk. He sat down opposite to her, as he always did after such a stay at the clinic..

“How did you know I was awake?” he asked.

“I'm a _doctor_ , and a nurse before that,” Recovery Girl said. “I'm supposed to _know_ when a patient in the same room is stirring. That sort of sense could save lives, back in the day.”

All Might gave a noncommital shrug. “I see.”

“Anyway,” said Recovery Girl, shifting her posture. “are you doing better?”

“Not exactly,” he said. “I've been forced not to cough for half an hour. It's not doing wondrously for my comfort, so to speak.” Then he forced a toothy smile... which didn't work very well, as it was interrupted by an uncontrollable fit of bloody cough.

The awkwardness was so thick Toshinori thought he could cut it with a knife.

“It's pointless asking you to forget everything you've heard,” said Recovery Girl, shaking her head, “so instead I shall have you promise _not_ to hold it against the boy.”

Toshinori leaned back. Of _course_ Recovery Girl would say that: she was a hero, but she was a medical person first. Letting Toshinori stay in the clinic while she spoke to Midoriya was already something of a breach of professional ethics. Never mind that Toshinori _really_ needed to know of this matter.

“He's a good lad, young Midoriya,” he said. “I wish I could have mentored him under better circumstances.”

“We don't get to choose a good chunk of our circumstances,” said Recovery Girl. “We just have to learn to deal with what we do have.”

“It's unfortunate.” Toshinori sighed, at a loss for more profound words to say. Recovery Girl didn't seem to take issue with his lack of eloquence overly much.

She did, however, seem to take issue with something else. “He didn't say it; not a single word,” she said. “but those eyes of his? He's taking this _All Might's successor_ thing more seriously than is probably good for him. You haven't been an extremely good influence on him, I'm afraid.”

“It can't be helped,” Toshinori said. He paused, wondering if what he wanted to say would help at all. He ended up deciding to spit it out anyway. “If I were him, I would do much the same. That's the deal with him – with us. We love an ideal so dearly, everything else seems small in comparison.”

“Tell you what,” she said. “Try to pressure the poor lad again, and I'll have your hides. He revered you enough that if you told him to break every single bones in his body _including his skull_ he'd do it. Have you any _idea_ how much responsibility that means for you?”

_But I don't put any pressure on him. All this is his own doing._

“I don't have much time,” Toshinori said. “I have to prepare him so he could be ready when I-”

Recovery Girl clonked him on the shoulder with her cane. She was probably going for his thick skull, but there was no way she could reach it.

“And you're supposed to be _smart_ , sonny. Come on now, use your head,” she said. “There's more than one way to make your succession scheme work out that does not involve making Midoriya cripple himself like a sodding martyr for an ephemeral 'greater good'.”

Yagi said nothing. He placed his hand on his pointed chin.

“Yagi Toshinori,” said Recovery Girl. “If you _care_ about the boy at all, you _will_ think of something. You aren't dumb, just slightly daft when it comes to your idea of _justice_.”

Something bubbled at the root of Toshinori's throat “You don't understand,” he said. “What will happen to this society without a _presence_ to give them hope and keep evil-doers cower in the shadow?”

“Then _make_ something to give them that hope!” she cried. “Hope isn't easy to make out of nothing, but that's the challenge we doctors face everyday: to give hope to the stricken where there's little cause for it – hell, _fabricate_ it if we have to!”

Then a spark of ingenuity struck him, sudden as it was. _Fabricate?_

“Yes, you're right,” said Toshinori. “I'll need to buy time. Time, and preparations for some sort of a present for young Midoriya...”

The initiative brought no comfort to his heart. _If young Midoriya isn't guaranteed to like it, does it count as a present any more?_

 ***

Thorin's company left Rivendell in a generally good mood on a fine sunny day just as spring was segueing into summer. Their spirit was high, their bags laden, their weapons sharpened, their maps annoted... and their number swelled by one.

The Dunadan Halbarad was now part of the company.

In the end, it was Bilbo who told the dwarves of the newest addition to their company. It was Bilbo who implored Balin and Thorin to give the Dunadan a chance, it was Bilbo who convinced the rest of the company that Master Elrond would pay the Ranger out of the share Bilbo had promised him.

It was Bilbo who wrote down in his notes, “ _pray never accept a deal as big as this without letting me know first,_ ” only to scratch it off right away, because how could he have blamed Izuku at all? If Bilbo had been there in the elf-lord's hall, he could have scant done better.

The dwarves' acceptance was uneasy and conditional at first. Again, how could Bilbo have blamed them? All of a sudden this gruff ranger had come along and essentially invited himself into their ranks (of course it was with Elrond's blessing, but to Thorin's eyes it was as good as the dirt beneath his boots), to say nothing about his kind's dubious reputation among the folks on the road. _Bilbo_ would have been suspicious without Izuku's vouching; and he wasn't even a dwarf!

But a few days on the road and already the dwarves were thankful, and why wouldn't they be? Master Halbarad had just about every skill specifically tailored to help their life on the move easier, swifter and more comfortable. Like showing them how best to cross a stream without splashing water all over the bedrolls, or how to travel without disturbing nasty things that dwelt in tiny tunnels beneath molehills, or, on a particularly rainy afternoon barely a day and a half from the safety of Rivendell, how to start a fire with wet wood (something even the best dwarven fire-starter had trouble with).

Then there were more consequential things he could do, too, like helping them live off the land with berries and venison (Took him one shot. Poor deer didn't know what hit him.), or rearranging their packing so more would fit in less space, or telling the group to step over their own tracks to confuse any potential stalkers as to their number or their direction. And of course, the fact that he was a ranger meant being like a map of that part of the world all unto himself.

By the time Bilbo's bare feet tread upon the foothills of the Misty Mountains, the company was comfortably well-fed, well-rested, well-rationed for rainy days, and more confident about the road ahead than they had ever been before. Thorin did not offer much in the way of praise; he did, however, told Kili and Fili and Ori on more than one occasions to 'do what the ranger said' – and knowing Thorin that was perhaps the greatest extent of approval you could get.

That particular night the company had pitched their tents and bedrolls under a copse within sight of the Misty Mountain's rocky crags, hidden behind many bushes. The dwarves had gathered around a small campfire kept more for light than warmth, for it was early summer and even the outdoors was only mildly cool.

Dinner had been a simple business of dried rations and leftover venison, and though they had not sung very loudly the cajoling was not to be missed. It had well culminated in many smoke rings and many more swaggering accounts of treasures and crafts. For once there was much merriment, and the wizard was no longer just smiling but now openly laughing.

Bilbo's heart had been steadily lightening, too, and not wholly because of Company business. Izuku's life must be looking up even as Bilbo was trudging along the quest. Katsuki Bakugou wasn't much of a threat any more now, and Bilbo would drink to that any day.

Still, a part of Izuku's most recent note had given him pause. “ _Shouldn't we tell them of... you know,_ that _?_ ” the boy had written.

Izuku had not gone into details as to how their meeting with Master Elrond had gone, but Bilbo would be a fool to think they could keep their secret forever. The question was not “should they?” but rather “how” and “when” and “to whom”.

It was not the kind of question Bilbo could answer within a day, or a week, or even a month, and especially not the night before such a great mountain-crossing.

Bilbo could only do he did best: as an entertainingly good entertainer. He had cajoled with the dwarves and made a joke at Kili's expense – particularly at his apparent interest in elven culture of all things. He joined in Bofur's boasting of his tolerance for alcohol, and nodded sagaciously at Bombur's desire to open a tavern of his own. He sat before Dwalin and had another go at armwrestling. It was all in good fun, as much as his heart was not wholly in the merry-making.

By the time the dwarves had dozed off one after the other, Bilbo was still thinking and thinking and thinking some more. Soon the campsite had fallen into silence but for the snoring of dwarves and one wizard (who was the loudest of them all, imagine that!), and Bilbo's thinking and mulling had yet to end.

He stood up from the bedroll and steadied himself.

One breath. Two. Three. The night air was cool and serene and wholesome, and Bilbo found himself pacing about in the silence.

But Bilbo was hardly the only Company member awake and restless. Thorin Oakenshield was sitting on a mound, back towards the fire. Once every so often he would sway his head left and then right, and draw his new blade a foot out of its jeweled scabbard. There was no gleam on the sword now, and that was very good, according to Gandalf anyway. Elf-swords were supposed to gleam when orcs drew near.

“Master Thorin,” he called out, and saw Thorin sheath the blade again. When Thorin started speaking, his back was still turned towards Bilbo.

“Master Baggins,” he said, and _then_ turned around. In fact, he seemed hardly surprised at all: his expression was severe yet strangely serene.

“Night's watch, sir?” Bilbo asked.

Thorin nodded once. “You are not sleeping,” he said.

Bilbo shrugged one shoulder. “I must admit I'm a mite nervous,” he said. “The unknown had a way to be imposing even to the bravest and wisest, as my father would say.” He was not lying: this side of the Misty Mountains was as far as the wisdom of the hobbits of his age went.

“In which case,” Thorin said, “you can still go home.”

Bilbo's shoulder quivered. “Excuse me?”

“I said, you can still go home,” said Thorin. “You've enjoyed Rivendell very much I see, and I regret to inform you that there won't be such like again most likely.”

“I am well aware, thank you very much,” Bilbo said. “I don't suppose you still aren't convinced I can see this journey to the end?”

“I am _very_ convinced you can do so and more, Master Baggins,” said Thorin. “And that is the entire problem.”

It was all Bilbo could do _not_ to make a funny face. “I beg your pardon?” he said. “I am not sure I follow-”

Now Thorin had stood up from his mound, and fully turned about. He was staring down Bilbo now, and though there was no violence in his gesture his towering stature was still enormously imposing upon a hobbit.

“Simply put, Master Bilbo Baggins, you are a capable gentle-hobbit of likes I have not seen before or expect to see in the Shire... or anywhere for that matter,” he said. “You have the skills that would have got you places in a prosperous court – and you can find such likes still, far to the South where the Great River empties into the sea. You've got a way with words, you can handle yourself in a fight more than people would assume, and you aren't above dispensing with wealth so lavishly if you thought it would buy you benefits greater still. You could have been a great orator, a great spy, a great armsmaster, a great master of caravans; a great leader of your people even, if you put your heart into it.”

Bilbo steadied himself. “I wonder if those are words meant in compliment,” he said. “But I shall take it as such, Master Thorin, for such is how it sounds to my ears.”

“Compliment or otherwise, I mean no offense,” he said. “Or only as much as I need to at any rate, for of this matter there is no well-mannered way to speak.”

Now he stared long at Bilbo, and his eyes gleamed and burned like a torch in the night. He paused long, as if to tell Bilbo to leave him and nothing of consequence would happen. But then Bilbo was nothing if not stubborn.

“I don't mind offense very much,” said Bilbo. “I've dealt with one too many obnoxious relatives, I should have you know.”

“O very well,” said Thorin. “For all your talents, Master Baggins, you've sold your service to my company as a simple burglar, for all the good it would do you. My company, going on a quest that is suicidal and pointless in the eyes of folk other than dwarves.” Bilbo could swear there were sparks when Thorin's eyes met his. “There is, simply put, no reason for you to do what you have done or are about to do; nor is there anything we can offer that you have want for in exchange for it. Nothing, except political capital.”

Bilbo blinked once, then twice. Realization struck him, and it wasn't a very nice sort of revelation.

“I see, my dear sir,” he said at last. “You are afraid I might be trying to worm my way into dwarven nobility?”

Thorin's stare was at once icy and apologetic. “Were our kind in better days, yes, that'd be exactly what I would say,” he said. “After all, if rich hobbits such as yourself think like dwarves do – no reason for me to assume otherwise – it's never money alone that you desire, but title and political clout. What better way to do so, than to play kingmaker for a prince down on his luck?”

Bilbo shuddered again, and silently thanked Eru it was him facing Thorin and not Izuku. The boy would be _crushed_ if someone was to doubt his purpose was anything less than totally heroic. Bilbo? He could dance that rhetorical dance if Thorin would.

“Why, yes, my dear Master Thorin, sir,” he said. “Assume that's indeed my intention. Assume I have a secret, well-hidden thirst for power and prestige beyond my ken. Assume, too, that I somehow desire to win power and influence people in a court I had not known to exist until its prince went knocking at my door.” He looked Thorin back the eyes. “Even _then_ I still fail to see what the problem is. You would be on the throne of a mighty dwarven realm, free to distribute favours and titles as you think fit, and if I am as much service to you as you are insinuating, surely my worth should be measured in goodwill and money alike.”

He drew in a breath of cold air. “Not to mention, all of that talk about rewards and aftermaths should be far from our mind, for it would only have a place _if_ our quest succeeds and that's quite an _if_ so to speak. Again, to quote my poor old father, count not your chickens before your eggs hatch.”

For long the great and important dwarf said nothing. His fingers combed his beard, and his gaze had now shifted to the pile of firewood crackling in the flame. Bilbo thought his stare could extinguish the flame itself.

Fortunately for the flame, Thorin finally looked up, back at Bilbo.

“You speak truly, Master Baggins,” he said. “Still, you would pardon me for applying the old dwarven wisdom of not trusting anything until you know what they are after.” He clasped his hands. “Tell me truthfully if you can: why did you sign the contract?”

“But if you should so distrust me,” said Bilbo, “would you not trust the letter of the contract instead? I thought it was quite well-made, and would hold well in any court of any just law. And I would like to work in trust and goodwill than doubt and suspicion.s”

“You don't understand, my dear sir,” said Thorin. “I should _like_ to trust you, Master Baggins, yet I know far too little about yourself. What guides you. What drives you. What makes you do what you do.” He drew his blade one foot from the scabbard, then put it back. Still no gleam. “You want to accompany us till the end, be it sweet or bitter, correct? Then let us know what _you_ are. Like you said it yourself: trust and goodwill over doubt and suspicions”

Bilbo breathed hard. _Perhaps being a little truthful would be helpful?_

He decided it was a good idea. “Well, if you insist,” he said. “Let's just say I undertake this journey for three reasons, which may or may not be what you think.”

“I don't mind surprises very much,” said Thorin. “Like you, I've dealt with one too many _surprises_.”

“To repay a favour to a one wizard, for the one” Bilbo said, “and to satisfy a morbid, nasty, fatal curiosity for lands beyond, for the other.”

Thorin raised a brow, but did not ask for further clarification. “That makes two,” he said. “The third then?”

“Let's just say,” said Bilbo, “someone quite dear to me would give me no ends of trouble had I seen someone needing help – and not lending a hand.”

Thorin let out a small snort. “ _Fascinating_ ,” he said. “A lady love, perchance? Or a mentor harsh and not quite fair? Or some kind of idol, lofty and distant as they might be?”

“Neither,” Bilbo said. “More like a fauntling I adopted by sheer chance and the Green Lady's blessing.”

Now it was Thorin's turn to blink. “You are right,” he said at last, and all sarcasm in his voice at once faded. “I didn't expect that. If, granted, you were telling the truth.”

Bilbo only smiled. Looking the dethroned dwarf-king in the eyes wasn't so hard after a while.

This was going better than he thought it would.

***

 

When Bakugou Katsuki barged into the principal's room, Toshinori was in the middle of a debate. A very important debate, if he had to say it himself, though obviously Bakugou wasn't the type to care about such trivialities as a _teacher's_ matters of import. 

Bakugou stormed past the shelves and décor, his eyes aflame, his jawline hard. To his credit, he was refraining from scowling, growling or swearing. Toshinori would count it an improvement, though not by much. Bakugou hadn't bothered to even knock.

Nedzu only blinked his beady eyes exactly once; then his face slipped back into that amicable smile of his once again, as if all of this had been part of his plans all along.

Or perhaps it _really_ had been. 

“Ah, Mr. Bakugou, isn't it?” he said. “I can't say you are quite welcome at this time-”

Bakugou glared. “A minute, Principal,” he barked. “Then I'll leave you alone.”

The grin on Nedzu's face only grew broader. “Exactly what I thought you'd say,” he said. “I also know for a fact you wouldn't leave until you have had your case heard. Would you?”

Bakugou only raised a brow. He invited himself to the seat opposite to Nedzu – which meant next to Toshinori. “I'll be quick-”

The difference between being All Might and being the skeleton called Yagi Toshinori was astounding. Bakugou didn't even look at him. Poor manner, certainly, but knowing young Bakugou Toshinori would take what little courtesy he could get. The boy could have told him to _fucking stand up_ and leave him some space to talk to the principal.

Toshinori did stand up all the same. “I'll excuse myself then,” he said, and would have left on his own accord had the principal not pulled his sleeve.

“Why, Mr. Yagi,” said Nedzu. “You don't need to leave; you're still my guest and let no one say Principal Nedzu can't treat his guest with due courtesy!”

“I suppose,” said Toshinori, and threw Bakugou a glance. “If Mr. Bakugou wouldn't mind-”

“I don't care,” the boy said absent-mindedly. Then he leaned towards Nedzu with redoubled aggression. “Principal, _sir_. I want to ask for special permission.” The word _sir_ was spoken with such force it was hardly a honorific at all.

Nedzu sipped his tea. “I'm listening,” he said.

Every single strand of Bakugou's eyebrows seemed to be standing on ends. He cleared his voice very loudly. “Our class is meant to have a lesson at USJ,” he said. “Rescue training.”

“Yes, Thirteen's class,” said Nedzu. “Is something the matter?”

“My quirk happens to be somewhat unsuitable for _saving_ people,” Bakugou said quickly, as if afraid he'd be shut up if he didn't. “So I want to request permission for a personal session on site to get used to it first.”

Bakugou was leaning against the table's edge, hunching over the teacup Nedzu had just poured him. Everything about him oozed... neither arrogance nor overconfidence, but _raw passion_.

Toshinori frowned. Did the boy had taken his words to heart?

A tiny movement crossed Nedzu's scarred eyes, almost undetectable. “You're requesting what essentially amounts to a personal trainer, Mr. Bakugou,” he said. “Much as I appreciate the fervor, I fear most teachers in this school would say – rightfully – that it isn't their job to give any student special treatment.”

Bakugou, against all odds, only raised his voice a little. “Fine. Then I'll just need permission to get into the bloody place so I can train by myself-”

“Obviously, Mr. Bakugou, we cannot do that,” said Nedzu. “Make no mistake: USJ is _not_ meant for a student to wander alone. It's a disaster simulation venue for a reason.”

A very Bakugou kind of growl escaped the boy's throat; though it was quieter than Toshinori thought it would be. “Look, is there any damned way I can persuade you to-”

“By not swearing in my presence, for starters,” said Nedzu. “But that aside... perhaps I could make you an exception. If you earn it.”

Toshinori heard Bakugou swallow hard. “I'll damn well earn it if that's what I have to do-”

“That's the spirit,” said Nedzu. “Would you like a bet, Mr. Bakugou?”

Bakugou stared at the principal with a glare that could turn iron into plasma. “A bet?”

“Let me put down my chip. You want to get permission into USJ well before the rest of the class?” Nedzu clasped his tiny hands. “I can give you that... as long as you can persuade at least one teacher to take you there. Or a pro-hero, if you can find one who'd agree to essentially be this personal trainer of yours.”

Now Bakugou's self-control cracked, and his lips curled into a smirk. “Is that all?”

Toshinori saw a twinkle of mischief in the principal's eyes. The back of his neck suddenly felt cold. _Bad idea, my boy. Bad idea._

“You'll be surprised, Mr. Bakugou,” said Nedzu. “We at U.A. prize our staff and students' freedom above all else, and that applies to teachers too. Teachers who, let me remind you, are professional heroes on _at least_ a part-time basis. Obviously they have more important things on their mind and schedule than – pardon my vulgar speech – babying a first-year who has infamously acquired a dotty reputation for anger management issues from week one.” He raised two paw-fingers. “I'll even give you afternoon leaves on demand until the USJ class, so you can try to contact whatever pro hero you see fit. How's that?”

For a moment Toshinori's gaze was glued to Bakugou. The boy was reacting exactly how Toshinori thought he would: clenching his fist, gritting his teeth, tensing every muscle on his face. He had half a mind to switch back into All Might form right then and there, secret be damned, because _the explosion would be epic_.

But then Bakugou's face relaxed, if only enough to downgrade his rage-o-meter from “ _would strangle kittens_ ” to “ _really, really fuming mad_ ”. He stood up and slammed both hands on the table.

“Consider it done,” he said. He was still staring at Nedzu, but the hostility had faded... somewhat. “Thank you, _sir_.” The expression of gratitude did not come easy: his face turned sour enough to turn fresh milk into cheese on the spot.

Then he turned around, walked out of the room, and closed the door with a slam so hard the entire principal's room quaked.

Nedzu's smile never faded. “Have a nice day, Mr. Bakugou,” he said – superfluously.

“All due respect, Principal, sir,” said Toshinori. “I don't think it wise giving young Bakugou a task he's meant to fail-”

“Do drink your tea, Yagi,” said Nedzu. “No, I doubt he'd fail. He'll find someone – someone to give him hell, that is; do pardon my vulgarity.” He paused. “And no, I do not mean _you_ , my dear _All Might._ You can't afford to tutor another. Three hours a day is already pushing your schedule as is.”

“You sound as if you've got everything arranged beforehands,” Toshinori said. “Did you pull some strings beforehand?”

“ _Pulling strings_ is such an ugly word,” said Nedzu. “You'll find that Bakugou is not as great as he thinks he is... but a certain incident a year back had given him something of a name among the right people.” He set his teacup down. “You do agree with me our business is sometimes all about _knowing the right people_ , don't you?”

The enamel cup quivered in Toshinori's hands. _Played straight into his hands, didn't you, young Bakugou?_

“Promise me you'll keep him from trouble to the best of your ability,” said Toshinori.

“Oh, believe me, if he's as smart a boy as you say he is, then he'll have no trouble at all except for that of his own making.”

“You don't believe him much, do you, sir?”

“On the contrary,” said Nedzu. “I thought he'd make a fine successor to you; and even if he doesn't, polish him a bit and he could be a brilliant help to whoever said successor happens to be. But someone needs to do the polishing.”

Toshinori frowned. _I beg to differ. You've never taught the lad._

He was just too polite to admit out loud as such. “We'll see,” he said instead.

Nedzu poured himself another cup, and suddenly his face turned as severe as a humanoid animal's face could be.

“Speaking of which,” he said. “About this... successor business. You've just said you'd prepared your _announcement_.”

“I have,” said Toshinori.

“I still don't think it a very wise move to make,” said Nedzu.

“It's inevitable,” said Toshinori, and meant it. He pressed his lips thin. “I think I know what you're afraid of – that society shall be thrown into chaos at the insinuation of my _supposed retirement_ , aren't you?”

“I don't mean that problem specifically,” Nedzu said. “Though that's one of my concerns as well. How're you going to handle the fallout?”

“All I am saying is to announce I have successors lined up.” Toshinori said. “I'm aware our great nation has been so used to having the Symbol of Peace to protect it, my retirement is almost unthinkable. But the sooner we tell the world about my intention of having someone to carry the torch, the more... sustainable, so to speak, the peace will be. People aren't stupid, both civilians and villains alike. Knowing I have a successor or three on standby would ease people's heart and make evil-doers more wary-”

But for long Nedzu said nothing. He sipped his tea repeatedly five times, then put down his empty cup. “You have already chosen a successor, haven't you? No need to tell me _who_ he is,” he said. “I'm just wondering... how is he going to take this announcement you're making?”

Midoriya. Of course, this decision of his had everything to do with young Midoriya.

Was he disappointed with young Midoriya? He'd be lying if he said no. He had expected Izuku to be like he had been to Nana: a passionate and capable successor, able to fully wield One for All like the weapon of justice it was.

This Midoriya had been unable to do. The moment he'd seen young Midoriya flinching from merely attempting a single One For All-powered punch, he'd known it. That it was not Midoriya's fault, or that he had done his very best did not matter. As things stood, it would be unkind, unhelpful, irresponsible and downright malicious of All Might if he'd stuck his fingers in his ears and told Midoriya 'You can do it' while he couldn't on a fundamental level.

But was he proud of the boy?Hell yes. The more he thought, the more Midoriya looked like the _perfect_ successor to whom he could ever entrust his inheritance. The boy was smart and kind and well-read, and willing to go to great lengths for the sake of others. On the other hand he could plan and think on the fly, and capable of acts of cunning that the more idealistic heroes-in-training would have trouble even comprehending much less doing. He had all the trappings of the next Symbol of Peace _but_ the power.

And here was the deal with All Might: He was not crafty and cunning with words, nor was he a very skilled teacher – not yet, anyway, but he was not incapable of making plans.

Midoriya Izuku was not going to become the next Symbol of Peace in his lonesome. He would not have to keep up the peace alone on his sole shoulder like the Greek Atlas buttressing the sky. He would not have to forfeit his own personal identity and sense of _self_ for the greater good.

The Symbol of Peace of this generation was a lone champion. The Symbol of Peace of the next, if All Might could help it, would be the leader, the tactician, the heart and the brain of a _team_ of champions. And a storyteller would be good, too. Boy could really make himself into a PR machine in and of himself if he tried.

He could be that leader... but only if the spotlight _wasn't on him_ until he was ready.

“Then I suppose you understood all the more why I have to make that announcement.”

One of the perks of being extremely intelligent was that Nedzu would know your thought – sometimes before you knew yourself. This was one of those times.

Toshinori found himself stared at by a sharp pair of black beady eyes. “Yagi Toshinori.” There was no humor in Nedzu's voice whatsoever. “You've been a teenage boy once, haven't you? Proud and brash and so, so _afraid of betrayal_ deep inside.” For a moment deep, haunting silence filled the room. “Let me ask you again: _do you still think this a good idea_?”

***

It was the fifth day in Izuku's new life without Kacchan.

Certainly after that incident they weren't going to be _friends_ any more, but seeing Kacchan actively avoid him was uneasy at best and downright tragic at worst. The (most definitely unintentional) humiliation Bilbo had delivered only meant it would be a cold day in hell before Kacchan would return to Izuku's life again as a tormentor, much less a friend.

At first Izuku hadn't taken the hole in his life where _Kacchan_ used to be very well, for better or worse. There was a part of him that shivered always when Kacchan looked his way, fearing some sort of verbal or physical beatdown. There was another part that screamed always 'go talk to him' when Kacchan looked away. The subconscious of a decade wasn't going away with just a few words.

But this was what Bilbo had written for Izuku: “ _You are a strong and brilliant boy_ ,” and when push came to shove that was all the encouragement he needed. So he puffed his chest, straightened his back, and forced himself to tear his subconscious away from his old childhood friend and tormentor. He wasn't extremely successful on the first day, the second day, or even the third day, but with every passing day it got easier to ignore Kacchan and focus on his own life.

Besides, it wasn't like he hadn't got other things on his mind. Namely the result of his session with Recovery Girl.

To be completely honest to himself, it wasn't like he hadn't expected something of the sort. If a quirk was going to leave you in shambles every time you tried using it, then it wasn't  _that_ unexpected to learn the problem might be at least semi-permanent. 

He'd told no one about it, particularly not All Might. Though part of him _really_ wanted to say it out loud and hear what All Might would say, the boyish, frightened part of him was leaning so strongly towards _keeping mum_. He was supposed to be All Might's successor, right? He was supposed to be battle-ready soon, right? All of this wasn't supposed to _be_ the case, right? He could be a wonderful vessel for One For All if only, if only he _tried_ , right? Right?

_Five years. I can shorten it to five years. More if I try._

_I can do this._

“Something's the matter, _kero_?”

Izuku looked to his right, at the petite, froggish girl leaning against the wall, and smiled back.

“Thinking happy thoughts, A-,” Izuku said, “I mean, _Tsu_.”

It certainly helped that he had other friends at hands now.

One of the unintended effects of Bilbo's performance was that Izuku was getting popular. Not _popular_ popular, true, but he was one of the who's-who in the new class now, and that was miles ahead of where he was in middle school at any rate. He knew everyone in class by name now, and his circle had expanded to include both Uraraka and Iida. There was Asui, too, the very tiny, very froggy, very quirky girl who'd invited herself into their company every lunch time. “ _I thought it might be fun_ ,” she had said, and added “ _Call me Tsu_.”

This one lunch break, Uraraka and Iida and Asui were sitting in a circle with Izuku, waiting for class to start – and gossiping. Except he hadn't exactly _spoken_ for a while, exactly because of the _mess_ in his head.

“You've been _thinking happy thoughts_ for a while now, Midoriya,” said Uraraka, who was sitting to his left.

“Well, there's nothing against _thinking happy thoughts_ in the code of heroics,” said Iida, “but it's still not very polite spacing out when you're talking to people, I suppose.”

“At least you aren't mumbling,” said Asui. “You do that very often, don't you?”

“K-kind of,” he said, scratching his scalp, and frantically looked for a way to change the topic. “A-anyway, you were saying?”

“Bakugou and his absenteeism” said Uraraka. “Next time pay a bit more attention when we're talking, pretty please?”

_Oh, right, that._

Which was why Izuku was spacing out in the first place. “I see,” he said.

“I wouldn't call it _absenteeism_ , since he's got permission from the Principal himself. Ostensibly,” said Iida, finger flicking over his phone. “I do wonder how he got it; U.A.'s procedures are supposed to curb, not encourage, playing truant, and knowing Bakugou I wouldn't be surprised if-”

Izuku cleared his throat despite himself. “Kac- I mean, Bakugou... he never plays truant.” He lowered his voice, hiding a shiver in it. The shiver, after all, wasn't going away any time soon. “You can say a lot of bad things about him, but you'll be hard pressed to find anyone more diligent.”

Why was he praising Kacchan again? It was a mystery for the age, that no matter how poorly he'd been treated, no matter how much oppression he'd been heaped with, Izuku was physically incapable of thinking _too_ ill of Kacchan. Even after he had coped, even after he'd filled that hole within him with other, meaningful people and things that made him feel better about himself, this wouldn't change.

“Speaking of which,” Uraraka said. “I saw him speaking to Mr. Aizawa after class yesterday.” She hushed down her voice. “Whatever he asked, Mr. Aizawa shot it down.”

Izuku blinked once.

“Eavesdropping is hardly hero behavior, Uraraka!” exclaimed Iida. But then he lowered his voice, and placed his palm over his chin. “Still, to think of it... he is staying back during recess these last couple days. I saw him seeking out other teachers too – he did talk to Mr. Cementoss, didn't he? If he's as hardworking as you say, he might be asking for more explanation or more homework.”

Izuku blinked twice.

“But why would Mr. Aizawa say no?” said Uraraka. “He's all about, you know-” She raised both hands and did an air quote. “- _stuffing_ us with homework like an American Christmas turkey!”

Izuku blinked thrice.

“He could be asking for an unfair advantage,” said Asui. “I don't think he needs any more preferential treatment, _kero_.”

“No,” said Izuku. “That's not like Bakugou either. For him it's either advantages of his own making or none at all. He wouldn't bow to or beg anyone for any sort of favor, or even ask for help, even if his life depends on it.”

“But being a hero means working in a team!” said Iida, slicing his hands in the air. “Like my brother said, no one hero can live in a vacuum! Being a hero is all about his teamwork, and-”

“That's just how he is,” said Izuku.

And then the bell rang. Part of Izuku was groaning – why was it that lunchtime had become so much shorter those days? The other half was happy and expectant: as his new company of friend shuffled out and back to their respective seats, Izuku girded himself for another half-awesome, half-embarrassing presentation by All Might...

Which didn't come.

When the classroom door opened, there was no swaggering “I AM HERE”, no flash of hearty and heartening smile, no colorful hero costume so Silver Age it hurt. There was only a sleeping bag and a pair of groggy, baggy black eyes.

Mr. Aizawa had shoved himself into the classroom before the class could quiet down.

“Class,” he said unceremoniously. “Mr. All Might is _suddenly_ preoccupied with... certain personal matters. I shall be taking over for today.”

A narrow-eyed glare put an end to all dissension, clamoring and noise-making whatsoever. All dissension, that is, aside from Izuku's raised hand – which he had done without realizing. “Yes, Midoriya?”

“Is Mr. All Might... well, sir?” he asked apprehensively. The back of Izuku's head was burning – the whole class was probably looking at him and his possibly weird display of anxiousness for a teacher. _They don't know any better._

His concern earned him a narrow-eyed glare.

“Well. And like I said, preoccupied,” said Aizawa. “Not unexpected, knowing him.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Izuku. But there was nothing thank-able about the matter: Deep inside Izuku's anxiousness just increased tenfold. All Might wasn't supposed to miss class – and knowing his personality he _really_ wouldn't have. Unless it was something terribly _grave_ and dangerously life-threatening.

But Mr. Aizawa was completely unconcerned... and somehow that was a suitably adequate reassurance for the moment.

“Now open your textbook, page 315,” he said. “Today we'll go through the basic _theory_ of 'what to do in a disaster zone' ahead of schedule... because _someone asked._ ”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes and Fanon:
> 
> \- The class president election has yet to take place as of the end of the chapter.  
> \- If it is not obvious yet: Bilbo has not got Sting yet. He may or may not receive it some time down the line.


	18. Many Team-buildings

**CHAPTER 17**

**MANY TEAM-BUILDINGS  
**

 

Katsuki was sitting in the tiny waiting-lobby of Kamui Woods' hero agency and growling to himself.

He glanced at his watch and swallowed another growl. He'd been waiting here for the better part of the afternoon. Apparently the fellow was busy with something. Or alternately, was trying to set him up.

He wouldn't have to be here had any teachers he'd approached over the last week said _Yes, I'll give you a hand_.

Mr. Aizawa had said 'No', and that was the end of that.

Lunch Rush had shaken his head, and went back to the cooking.

Cementoss had gone on a small tirade about the school (and _the establishment_ ) not making exceptions for anyone for any reason.

Ms. Midnight had giggled and said something about 'young spirit' (which may or may not have been a veiled innuendo), but then steeled her face and said 'Can't help you, sorry'.

Recovery Girl very flatly told him to leave her office and not disturb her patients unless he'd got himself hurt or something.

And the less spoken about his attempt with Vlad King, the better.

Which had left him only those few pro-heroes who had _spoken_ to him. Which meant the quad of younger pros who'd tried (and failed) to save his hide this time last year.

He had sent four, passionately and strongly-voiced emails to their respective offices. In hindsight that was poorly thought and poorly done: only one of them had answered with anything other than an automated “ _thank you for your email, we don't accept unsolicited messages_ ”.

It was Kamui Woods of all people that answered: the rising star among the hero community (and of course another stepping stone in Katsuki's become-the-top-hero game plan).

“ _Come to my office Friday afternoon,_ ” he'd written, so tersely, so without fanfare.

In hindsight, he shouldn't have been so excited.

 _Shitty office,_ he thought, staring at the beige ceiling, brown-green wallpaper, last-century water cooler and last-century cup dispenser, the unadorned set of sofa, and the receptionist's desk that would belong in a cheap hotel _._ There was a TV, too, turned off – which defeated the entire purpose of having a TV in the reception lobby in the first place. The receptionist was one of those typical office ladies in her late thirties, dressed in an office skirt and wearing her hair drawn into a tight office bun, eyes glued to a so-last-decade narrow-screen monitor. Katsuki wondered _why_ the place even needed a receptionist in the first place: he hadn't seen anyone coming in or out of the lobby yet, and he'd been there all afternoon. The place wasn't even Kamui Woods' own office, but rather one of those rooms rented in a dime-a-dozen city block in Shinjuku.

When the reception lady looked up, Katsuki was just about to nod off. “Mr. Bakugou?” she said. “Mr. Kamui Woods would see you now.” She pointed towards the corridor behind a worn glass window. “Third door to the right; he's expecting you. Have a nice day!”

The door was slightly ajar, and the coolness of airconditioning soaked Katsuki from head to toe the moment he stepped through the door. Katsuki thought he should push the door open and be done with it. What little good manner he had yanked him back.

_Would make for a fucking bad first impression._

He ended up knocking, and was greeted with a monotonous “Do come in”. Which he did.

Katsuki found himself in a completely average office room with all the regular paraphernalia and nothing whatsoever standing out. Well, except for the one obvious thing: There, at a table facing the door sat Kamui Woods, hands clasped in front of his face.

The pro hero was a lot less imposing or threatening when he was sitting at a desk than when he was out there kicking ass and taking names. He looked like a stereotypical frail, short, twiggy, fallen-on-hard-time older brother to the heroine in a teen drama or something. But his hero costume was still on – like he would never take it off – and he sat perfectly straight on his simple office-table and oozed _good old Japanese manner_ ; and that screamed _'Show some respect, punk'_ like no other.

“Bakugou Katsuki, isn't it?” he said, gesturing towards the chair already placed opposite. “Do take a seat.”

Katsuki did as he was told without much resistance, and at once regretted it. The chair was strategically placed underneath the aircon's cold stream: no sooner had Katsuki sat down than he felt a horrendous chill washing over his backside and arms. A shudder was a natural physiological reaction.

And shuddering meant he'd already lost his 'first impression' phase.

“Relax,” the pro hero said. “Let's have a talk, shall we?”

“Yeah, sure,” Katsuki said. “So when can we start with the USJ business-”

Kamui Woods raised his palm. “Hold on a minute,” he said. “First thing first: Let's talk about your email.”

Katsuki creased his brows. “What the heck's wrong with my email?”

“Basically everything,” said Kamui. “What can I say? Improper form, improper manner of addressing, improper... well, everything. It's the kind of mail that belongs well in the spam folder. In fact, I had half a mind to send U.A. a very strongly worded letter telling them to educate their charges properly in due etiquette.” He looked Katsuki in the _face_. “And before you object: it reflects way worse on you than you probably think it does.”

Katsuki blinked. Did he just got _preemptively scolded_?

“That's all I have.” Katsuki growled. “Why the fuck agree to meet me if you found it so problematic?”

His mask had no mouth, yet Katsuki could almost see him _smirk_. “To see what the fuss is all about, mainly,” he said. “Someone I know gave me a tip about a certain hellion with... special learning needs. Asked me if I could help out.”

 _The hell?_ “S-special learning needs?” Katsuki cried. “I'm not a cripple, you idiot!”

“My, so quick to jump to _that_ conclusion? You need to work on your prejudices as well as your manners.” Kamui straightened his posture. “At any rate, I thought you were asking for access to USJ before literally everyone else?” he said. “What's your excuse, then, if not _special needs_?”

“Because-”

Kamui's harrumph cut him short. “Let me answer that one for you,” he said. “Because you're used to special treatment, because your quirk is _so_ good.” His shoulder then relaxed. “You might be first-rate hero material, kid, but never forget right now that's all you are: _material_.”

Something went _pop_ between Katsuki's ears.

“That's not what you f-” he exclaimed. “That's not what you said last year after the bloody slime villain incident! You said I was _heroic_!”

Kamui idly extended a wooden rooty finger. “Have you ever asked yourself _why_?” The root-like appendage crawled towards Katsuki's side of the table, like an oversized, deformed creeper. _The fuck is this creepy shit?_

“Because I fought off the wanker, that's why!”

“Wrong,” he said. “You were a little boy who had just survived a villain encounter that would have most kids your age in a therapy ward for years.”

The extended finger stopped just shy of Katsuki's half of the table, and yet his skin was crawling – how could this bloody hero so _creepy_ again? No, it wasn't just the fingers; it was

All the while Kamui was speaking still, slowly and emphatically. “Every hero worth his salt would have praised you,” he said, “not because you deserved it, but because you were a _victim_ and therefore needed as much comforting as we could have given. We were no doctors; we could only praise.”

Funny, if Katsuki had heard those words just a week before, he would have shouted and screamed and tried to blow something up. Today, however, his world had already been such a smoking ruin that he didn't mind someone taking a piss on the ashes all that much any more.

He was just... sitting there, numb to the words.

When he did manage a retort, it lacked all sense of edge and bite. “Then why even agree to help me?” Even his fury was half-hearted. “Are you fucking with me?”

Kamui's fingers _shot_ forward like a bullet, soaring upwards, its tip flinging right past Bakugou's cheek. “Can your temper,” Kamui said, and suddenly Katsuki felt _afraid._ It wasn't a request. It was an _order_. “You are still in my _office_. I have every right to tell you to _sod off_.” His fingers retracted a little. “Apologies for the uncouth expression.”

“Tch-”

Kamui straightened his posture. “Anyway, as for why? Because I'm amused, and because it seems the right thing to do,” he said. “You're still a kid playing with a powder keg, but you don't want to be a kid forever, do you? You want to be a hero worthy of respect; put that powder keg where it would benefit society. I might be able to help you with that – better than let your quirk go to waste. Or go villain.”

“I'm-I'm never going to be a fucking shit-eating villain!”

“You never know,” Kamui said. “Never assume U.A. graduates all become pillars of society without fail. The most dangerous villains are those who start out as heroes more often than not.”

Katsuki growled. _I need this bastard's help,_ he chanted inside. _I need his fucking help. I can bloody stand this crap._

He said none of those offending things. “Yeah, yeah, I get it,” he said instead. “Can we move on to the practice part already?” He could call it a minor victory of a kind.

Except it wasn't much good.

“Not so fast, kiddo,” Kamui said. “You want me to help you – pretty much for free and in my own time no less? Better be prepared to give something back.”

“What do you want? Payment?” Katsuki felt like revving up his haggle engine. The day he'd be swimming in money for being the Number One Hero was still far off, and until then he was

But Kamui shook his head. “Payment?” he said with a small guffaw. “Please, I have my day job for that; as long as I don't get kill-stolen. No, I want you to follow a few ground rules. Can't have an _undisciplined punk_ ruining my reputation.”

“Rules? Fine, get it over with.” said Bakugou. The words ' _undisciplined punk_ ' was poking at him inside. If this went on he would need to take blood pressure pills way before his time.

“Rule number one, no swearing in this room or in my sight.”

“Good as done," Katsuki said, and tried not to grow;.

“Good.” Kamui nodded. “Second rule, you're going to follow my instruction _to the letter_ for as long as I'm doing the tutoring, in USJ or elsewhere if you stick around.” he said.

Katsuki swallowed once, then twice. So much bile was rising in his throat, figuratively and literally. _Spit it out, spit it out, spit it out._

His self-control, fortunately, prevailed. “You done with gloating?” he said instead. “Tell me the third rule and be done with it.”

Kamui Woods, the _wanker_ , raised his mug full of sickly-green tea. “Third rule,” he said, “My 'calling the shots' extend to cancelling this arrangement. If I find your performance to be unsatisfactory or your manner too... unsuitable, shall we say – which it is right now – then I have every right to put an end to this business between us.”

Katsuki thought he was seeing red. “That's fucking unfair!”

“Let me remind you, Bakugou, I hold all the cards here,” Kamui said idly. “That said, I'm not an unjust master, so I'll give you a three-strikes-you're-out sort of deal.” He paused, coldly fixing his gaze on Katsuki's face. “Oh, and for your information, you just swore in front of me. That's one strike; two to go.”

Then he reclined back, crossing his knee and folding his arms.

“So, Bakugou,” he said. “Are you game, or shall you back out?”

In hindsight...

… Katsuki never really had a choice.

***

Izuku gripped his phone like a good-luck charm, all but ignoring the cool breeze ruffling his hair and the amber setting sun over the beach. His pointer raced across the screen; words after words appeared on the screen.

 _“All Might's just called,”_ he wrote. _“He wants to talk to me personally... about something 'very important' and told me to try to keep calm.”_ Which was about the last thing one should say to Izuku if they wanted to keep him calm.

The situation: All Might had sent him a message during class. _“I need to speak to you_ , _”_ it had said. _“There's an important thing you need to know.”_

Plain and simple, yet incredibly effective in reducing Izuku to a shivering mess throughout the latter half of the lesson. In fact, his taking notes had been almost entirely on instinct: not a one word among Mr. Aizawa's otherwise informative lecture on operational procedures in case of earthquakes slipped into his brain.

Izuku had tried to gird his nerves in as much iron as he could muster, but there he was, sitting in a gazebo overlooking the Dagoba beach, waiting for All Might with trembling fingers and cold feet.

_“I knew something was up – it isn't like All Might at all to excuse himself from class. You know it yourself, right?”_

A very big part of him was wishing for a miracle; that Bilbo could somehow read the text he typed  _right now_ and offer any sort of counsel – or failing that, just any kind of response whatsoever. 

_I'm better than this. I'm better than this. I'm better than this._

But then Izuku girded himself in steel. Bilbo was not there. None of his new friend was there. Whatever was coming was  _his_ to bear. Izuku might have lived an easier life with Bilbo doing all the hard work for him.

_I must be stronger. I must be stronger. I must be stronger._

His inner chanting became mumbles before he could stop it. Fortunately there was no one around to witness or to judge.

A century seemed to have passed when Izuku saw a tall and lanky silhouete with a blond mane approaching. All Might, in his real form, looked even more bent and wearied than he normally was, and Izuku felt like he was being pricked inside.

“Been waiting long, young Midoriya?” All Might asked. His attempt to sound laid-back and relaxed sort of fell flat on its face: his tone was even deeper and more weighed down than it normally was. 

Izuku took a very deep breath. “I've just arrived, sir,” he said. It was not entirely a lie: he might have been there long, but his heart  _really_ hadn't been in it.

“I see,” said All Might. He sat down on the chair opposite to Izuku, and (tried to) act like nothing was wrong. “How's your other classes doing?”

“It's fine, sir,” said Izuku. “Um... what seems to be the matter?”

For a while All Might said nothing. He was looking distantly into the sea, as if actively avoided Izuku's eyes.

“Um, sir?”

“Eager as always, eh, young Midoriya?” he said at last. Izuku saw his fist clenching _hard._ “There's a very important matter I thought you need to know. I am thinking of... making a very big announcement.” He looked up at Izuku, and at once sunken eyes appeared to have sunken even deeper. “I think you should know about what I'm going to tell the world.”

Izuku's heart skipped a beat just as All Might paused.

“I am thinking of announcing to the world, officially at last, that I came to U.A. to look for a successor.”

Izuku thought he'd stopped breathing. Was All Might seriously thinking of _telling the world Izuku was his successor_? “Why, sir? Weren't you completely against others learning about our...” His voice trailed off. “...arrangement?”

“That was the plan, yes. Except the situation has changed. You have been following the online hero-gossip, haven't you?” he said. “Speculations are already going wild after my becoming a teacher at U.A. Not surprising, now that I think of it: why would the Number One Hero spend a good chunk of his time  _teaching_ now, when even the idea of being a teacher has been far from his thoughts for most of his career?” 

He paused and hunched down a little, hands clasped. “People are not stupid. They're already guessing – correctly – that I am looking for a successor,” he said. “The rumor mill is spinning: you get things as outrageous as me planning to transfer my consciousness into a Robo-All-Might developed by U.A.'s best engineers, to those disturbingly close to the truth, like I'm dying of injuries or a disease and need to pass my mantle quick.” 

Izuku shuddered, and recalled the many discussions on the social media he'd glanced upon. At one point, yes, people had been talking about how All Might should be looking for a successor or three because he was still human and in his fifties no less – only to be laughed off the internet. Not so much since his coming to U.A. as a teacher: suddenly the silly speculators turned out to have a leg to stand on, and when a theory started becoming plausible more and more of its supporter would come out of the woodwork.

Now All Might turned around. “So,” he said, “perhaps it's wise to cut my losses when I can, and tell the world  _I am looking for a successor, yes, but I am still here_ .”

“Perhaps you're right, sir,” said Izuku. 

Suddenly All Might looked Izuku in the eyes, and the boy thought he was freezing over.  “Except... and this is the important part,” he said. “I'll tell them I've got in mind not any single one successor, but a _team_.”

The ice shattered. Shock coursed through Izuku. 

The first thought to come to Izuku's mind was a very predictable ' _Am I not good enough as a successor?_ ', because why  _else_ would All Might have to lie about this matter? 

“You don't seem to approve,” All Might noted. 

“No, no, sir, I... understand the need for bending the truth.” said Izuku. “But why a _team_ of successors? Am I not... good enough?” Almost at once he felt like swallowing his tongue: how could he have been so curt and impolite? 

All Might  _did_ look Izuku in the eyes – uncomfortably, as if saying ' _I knew you would think that_ '. 

“No, the matter isn't that you aren't  _good enough_ ,” All Might said, but his voice was so  _unsure_ Izuku was certain he wasn't speaking his mind. “All I want to do is to quell speculations and keep the public eye away from  _you_ , until you're ready to shout 'I AM HERE' to the rest of the world” He looked back at Izuku. “Besides, I was wondering... don't you think you would work better as part of a team?”

“But you never work in a team! You never even had a sidekick!”

All Might shook his head. “That's because I am me and you are you, young Midoriya,” he said. “However hard you try, you cannot – and shouldn't strive to – become a copy of me. It doesn't matter if you become something more, or something less: the hero business is about leadership strength personality as much as it is about strength of virtue and strength of quirk...” One second of silence. Two. Three. “... and you have more personality to yourself than many pro heroes.”

“But I _am_ your successor, aren't I? I'm supposed to tell the world that I am, aren't I?” Izuku's voice crescendoed into a shout. “We can avoid all of this, right? I only need to- to-”

_To do what?_

The words evaporated before Izuku could spit them out. What _could_ he do, again? Could he just stand before the camera and say ' _I am All Might's successor!_ ' and hope that everything would turn out fine and not be laughed off, or _worse_? Or could he try making that announcement by deed, go vigilante and Texas Smash a villain off the street to the moon while breaking all the bones in his body?

Bad idea, the both of them.

All Might seemed to agree: he wasn't looking at Izuku at all. “I think my announcement would be good for you,” he said. “You... need time, young Midoriya. You need time and a team at your side, if you can have one.”

It made sense. It made so much sense, and it hurt so much all the same. The disappointment was viscerally real. Izuku's eyes saw tiny stars; he swallowed once, then once again.

_I've failed All Might._

All Might didn't say it; goodness, he _wouldn't_ say it at all because he was _All Might_ , and that meant the pinnacle of goodness, kindness and niceness. He might be avoiding to look into Izuku's eyes, like he thought it was _his_ fault Izuku was the failure he was. Somehow it made the realization even worse.

“I see, sir,” he said. “You've made up your mind.”

“I... have, mostly,” said All Might. “But if you're uncomfortable with the idea, well, I can try something else-”

A very large part of Izuku felt like just dropping to his knees and say 'I'm so sorry' and maybe beg for a second chance to be a better successor this time.

He said none of that.

Instead, this was what he said: “No, I'm fine.” His eyes was misty, but that was a secondary concern. “W-when is the interview-”

“I've phoned the station. They'll arrange a slot on Friday afternoon.”

“Then by all means,” Izuku puffed his lungs. He had to be positive, right? Positive and dignified, right? “Good luck with your interview, sir!”

He couldn't recall most of what he was talking to All Might next. Once again his brain was running on instinct, and Izuku's instinct-brain was truly horrendous at recalling details.

***

When the company arrived at a fork in the road that morning, Gandalf was a little distracted himself.

The Company had now left the safety and comfort of Elrond's hospitality behind for several days, and Gandalf had spoken very little. In fact, he'd spoken less to the dwarves over the past week than he had in one _hour_ before. He was not singing, or joking, or laughing, and mostly kept himself to himself – and not merely because he was the only one in the company with any sense about him.

He had not seemed to be missed. Between Halbarad, who provided needful advice on the road, and Bilbo, who lightened up the camp with his delightful tales, there seemed to be little place for a wizened, grumpy, frequently-disappearing wizard any more.

Gandalf, for once, had welcomed the silence.

“ _I might sound quite addled in the mind, Mithrandir_ ,” Elrond had said. “ _But I reckon Belladonna's fauntling is only himself some of the time, and someone else the rest._ ”

Gandalf had not disagreed. “ _You might be, Master Elrond,_ ” he had said anyway. “ _You speak of outlandish things that an elf of your age and birth has no business mentioning!_ ”

“ _Haven't I?_ ” There had been a tinge of humour in Elrond's voice. Many thousand years had passed: Elrond's sense of humour had never got any less dry. Or less serious, as had just then the case. “ _You've heard the stories he told the dwarves. It's none of the sort I have heard, before or during my lifetime._ ”

Of course Elrond would have eavesdropped. Rivendell was his realm, and an elf-lord had ways of knowing exactly what was being spoken within its walls.

“ _What are the odds poor old Mister Bilbo is just troubled in the mind – bless him?_ ” Gandalf had said. “ _Or has just made his stories up? Belladonna, bless her soul, was every bit the witty and natural storyteller, as was poor Bungo too, unremarkable as he is in most other matters._ ”

“ _It might be a disease of the mind, certainly_ , _or a sense of aggrandisement little heard of among the simple hobbit folk,_ ” said Elrond. “ _Nonetheless,_ _those tales he told are too coherent and too sensible to have come from a diseased mind or an imagination too active. I cannot discount the possibility that our_ simple _hobbit has been an eyewitness to those events he recounted, if not elsewhere... then elsewhen._ ”

“ _Are you thinking what I am thinking?_ ” Gandalf had exclaimed. “ _That Bilbo had left Arda and then come back? 'There and back again', as the phrase goes, wherever 'there' happened to be?_ ”

“ _I don't claim to know for sure, Mithrandir. After all, the Eldar cannot leave the world, in life or death, ere the world be remade._ ”

It was the last words Elrond said that early morning that echoed in Gandalf's head – and would be there to stay until he got himself an answer.

“ _All the same, unwise are those who discount the '_ unknowable _' as '_ impossible _'_.”

As always, Gandalf had found himself in agreement.

Now that he had had a new perspective, suddenly everything he'd heard from or of Mister Bilbo Baggins made that much more sense. Why he claimed to quit Old Toby's one day and then casually spoke of a smoke the next. How he was hysterical and tearful one day, then perfectly hale and in control of his faculties come the next dawn. And what the deal could possibly be with his story-telling being as outlandish as Elrond had noted.

The conclusion he drew was that there were two  _ fëar  _ inhabiting Bilbo, perhaps even more, taking turn representing him. The one was confident, the other passionate. The one was inconspicuous, the other observant. The one was kind and helpful in the small ways of the hobbit, the other heroic in those dramatic ways known to those heroes of the North who lived and fought and perished in the Elder Days ere the fleet of the Valar cast down Morgoth's stronghold. 

He was not sure which one was the Bilbo he'd seen peeking out from behind Bag End's large round door when he had driven the cart of food around Hobbiton that winter. But this he could tell: neither of Bilbo's personalities was hard to deal with. They were cooperative, helpful and always willing to listen to counsel and orders. In fact, at this point in the journey, there was little reason to pry: Simple Bilbo and Brave Bilbo were working together, to the Company's benefit.

He decided to wait and let the hobbit – or whoever was clothed in his flesh – do the talking. And if he wasn't willing to share, well, Gandalf would respect that. In fact he would go even further: he'd keep Bilbo's _quirk_ a matter of wizardly confidentiality... unless it would somehow threaten the expedition.

So throughout their march towards the foothill, Gandalf had listened much and spoken little, and hoped that the company would chalk his silence to the aloof and mysterious ways of wizards. The act of eavesdropping itself wasn't difficult, for elf-lords were not the only ones with tools tailored to spying unseen and unheard. The difficult part was all about putting the knowledge to good use.

But now he had to set his thoughts and plans aside, for the Misty Mountains was welcoming them in its own way.

The morning was young still: sun was hidden behind the mountain still, and what little light of dawn was thoroughly misted by the fog and clouds above. The mountain was dark and black, and ominous as it came. Gandalf reckoned only a few of the present company knew it well: Moria was all but a legend now, and though Thorin and Balin and Dwalin had fought in the last great war about Gundabad, that was the bloody business of the past century.

“Which way now, o Ranger?” said Kili.

“The upper fork leads high up the mountain: the High Pass it is called, and old as time itself. The lower would take us through an old redoubt built by goblins.” Halbarad wrapped his cloak closer about him. “We Rangers of this generation remember it with ill tiding: our Chieftain before last was on his way to assault it when his expedition was crushed by trolls from Ettenmoor.”

“Are there any other goblin strongholds _still_ around?” asked Gloin. “I fancy meself some orc-neck-chopping if it wouldn't hurt our quest overly much.”

“The _entire_ Misty Mountains is a goblin stronghold these days, my good sir,” said Halbarad. “Their tunnels run deep through the rock and dirt, and there are many caves and holes and crevices from which they may emerge. At any rate the redoubt was quite impressive back in the day, and there's just that possibility the goblins had reinforced it over the years.” He looked towards the upward slope, and his gaze moved towards the mountaintop where the tip had vanished behind the misty clouds. “I would strongly suggest the upper fork; it would save us a lot of trouble from goblins. But then-”

Thorin frowned. “I assume there is a catch?”

“Giants,” Halbarad said, matter-of-factly. “Large as a hill and not extremely smart, terrible foes when angered and just nearly as terrible when they are merry-making, yet theirs is not an altogether malevolent or evil folk. On stormy days the giants indigenous to these parts like to match the thunder from the sky with the thunder of their boulder-throw, for sports.”

Nearly everyone in the company was shuddering, if not a little, then a lot. Gandalf wouldn't blame them: even the most well-traveled dwarves of their generation would not have need to confront the mountain-giants of the Misty Mountains very often.

Now the ranger paused and glanced at the mountaintop. “That said, the upper pass has been... quiet these last months,” he said, “though not for want of of rain and gale. I fear something might be keeping the giants occupied.”

“Fear?” Ori said.

“Fear, yes, for there is cause for grave concern,” said Halbarad. “Giants are as a rule more of a source for worriment quiet than rambunctious. They could be laying low for an ambush. They could be slumbering, desiring no disturbance and would be disagreeable if stumbled into.”

Gandalf harrumphed. “Or worse: they might have been overwhelmed – or controlled – by _something,_ ” he said.

He pressed his lips beneath his mustache. Some of the older dwarves were looking slightly paler and certainly not because of the cold.

Now Thorin step to the fore. “Let us take the upper fork,” he said. “Much as I hate goblin-ken as any dwarrow whose beard is long and braided, I daresay we avoid unnecessary confrontations if we can. Giants we can avoid – if they don't see us; goblins we most likely can't, for they are used to the smell of dwarrows.”

“But if the _very worst_ had happened,” said Balin, “then I would rather face a thousand goblins in their full wicked panoply than one rampaging giant.”

“We could avoid such if we're careful,” said Thorin. “I say we proceed slowly and send an advance scouting party; keep communication open and running, and we might make it through without incidents yet.”

Thorin waited. The company was looking at one another, and began nodding: first Kili and Fili, then Balin and Dwalin, then Dori and Gloin too. Bifur muttered ' _Cowardice, but fair_ ' in Khuzdul.

“Sounds good,” said Bilbo, and gave his own share of nodding as well.

If Thorin was pleased at the approval, he didn't show it so much. His countenance was fierce and grave; his forehead creased, his mouth curved humorlessly. “Looks like I have everyone with me. Good,” he said. “Now for personnel, we need someone fleet of feet and keen of eyes, and able to hide in plain sight (and that means anyone but you, Bombur, no offense).” He drew his finger across the line of dwarves, punctuating his motion with the names concerned. “That meant Nori and Bofur and the burglar of the company.”

His order was, predictably, met with a certain level of objection.

“Well, uh, my lordship,” said Bofur. “Got a hangover right here from elvish ale the other day; e'erything's spinning around and all-”

“I'd be glad to go,” said Nori, “but, ah, you see, Lord Thorin sir, someone needs to keep an eye on the Company from the shadow lest, uh, unfortunate things crawl behind us!”

Thorin's face steeled. “I don't see the hobbit objecting,” he said. Then he stopped, like he was about to say something much more stinging and insulting.

He spoke none of the sort, and let the actual insults go unsaid. “Do any of you _True Durins_ ,” he said instead, “wish to assist the Company with this undertaking?”

“I shall, if I am called,” said Fili, his face equally grave as his uncle. “And you, too, Ki. Prepare yourself and your bow.”

Kili pointed at himself. “Who, me?” he said sheepishly. “Er, well, yeah, sure, I suppose I can do that. Eyesight's still sort of good last time I checked-”

And then a (comparatively) tiny hand shot up from the company's back.

“Could I go?”

Nearly everyone flipped around. Ori, the bookish dwarf, smaller than most and younger than all the dwarves in the company, was clutching his sketchbook in one arm and keeping the other as upright in the air as he could. The sheer amount of eyeballs on Ori was such that Gandalf thought the poor dwarf was on the brink of melting on the spot.

He didn't melt. He didn't stutter. He didn't seem at the least flustered. There was only eagerness in that broad grin of his: any broader and his mouth might be permanently deformed.

“You?” Thorin said. “Well, Ori, isn't your place in the back row? Let your elder do the fighting while you do the record-keeping?”

“Well I beg to differ! I'm the youngest dwarf in this company and understandably among the sharpest. Ain't I?” he said indignantly. “And underestimate not my fleetness! My second brother's name is not Nori the infamous for no reason!”

“'Tis a bit much, o dear brother,” said named dwarf mumbled.

“I'm not joking, my dear lad,” said Thorin. “This is real, dangerous work meant for-”

Thorin's words suddenly froze in his mouth. The ranger was just then looking Ori from top to toe. There was not a hint of humor in the way he lifted his palm to his chin, or the way he eyed the obstinate young dwarf.

“Hmm,” he said, “I mean no offense, master Ori, but what _can_ you do?”

“I can write, and I can remember things pretty well!” exclaimed Ori. “I can draw rather nicely, too; all I need is some good paper and some ink and I can get you a portrait in half an hour flat!”

Halbarad cocked a brow. “Can you indeed?” he said, “Master Ori, have you ever drawn a map of any kind?”

“Sure have,” said Ori. “Now I am not by rights very good at making those detailed maps of the world and everything in it like you'd seen in one of our hoards, but I have drawn a miniature map of the Blue Mountain settlement when I was smaller-”

“Then you'd be very useful as an impromptu cartographer!” said Halbarad. “I would be glad to have you... as long as you promise to do what you are told. I mean no imposition, but I shan't sugercoat the matter: scouting is dangerous work and requires _discipline_.”

And then the two absentee dwarves began to holler.

“Actually, scratch that request, my good Lord Thorin sir,” Nori exclaimed. “If Ori's going then I'm going too! Let nobody doubt Nori's courage!” For emphasis he opened his coat and showed off his veritable collection of blades short and long, serrated and smooth-edged, meant to slash and to cut and to slice and to be thrown, numbering no less than a dozen.

“Mahal, I'll-I'll do my part too!” shouted Bofur. “No dizzy and hangovers me brother's homemade tea can't cure-” His declaration was punctuated by a very loud burp followed by an equally loud hiccup.

“That _is_ what I wanted to hear, friend and kin,” Thorin said. His voice was so low as a growl unto itself; his hands fell on the two shifty dwarves' shoulders, and there was a glint of, if not pride, then approval.

“I shall go along too, Master Thorin,” exclaimed Dori. “Someone needs to keep an eye on my unruly brothers, lest-”

“You aren't so swift on your legs or inconspicuous any more, friend Dori,” Thorin said. “It is decided. Ori, Nori, Bofur and Master Baggins, we look forward to fortunate tidings.”

Bilbo looked downright flabbergasted at first, but then he smiled in that fruity hobbitish way Gandalf was so well-used to. “I'll do whatever I can,” he said, and there was steel in his voice.

Gandalf, too, was smiling beneath his beard and his hat above it.

The lesser-born of the company might not have cared much for old-fashioned dwarven traditions. They might not even bother themselves overly with the whole _Erebor Reconquest_ and _Durin's Line_ business.

They were, however, still _dwarves_ ; and dwarves could be so flabbergastingly stone-headed at times, for good or ill.

***

Shigaraki Tomura growled and stared through the only window in the pub's lounge. Shitty weather, those days: the sun was high and not a cloud to be seen. Normally he'd keep the curtain closed, but Kurogiri decided it was _laundry day_ , the jerk. At least Father's hand was with him still, covering his face like Father would have liked to protect him. Otherwise he'd have gone insane and started disintegrating random stuff.

He rapped his finger on the counter. He was _bored_ , damn it, but he couldn't bring himself to just sit down before the console and start beating up electronic people with a big stick. Everyone in his close circle (which consisted of a grand total of _two_ people) knew Shigaraki Tomura was a stereotypical video game junkie. Only himself knew he actually _sucked_ at all kind of gaming that didn't have to do with beating other people up with a big stick or something.

Except beating stuff up wasn't so attractive today.

Apparently All Might, the big fat _wanker_ , had just scheduled an interview with _Asahi._ The contact over the TV station had been vague and not very cooperative, but unless Tomura had gone deaf he could swear to Father's hand he'd heard the word 'successor' over the phone.

Apparently All Might was looking for a successor, and at once Tomura thought he'd seen the endgame.

It was semi-official: The age of All Might was coming to an end. And why wouldn't it? Why shouldn't it? The bastard was getting older and perhaps slower and weaker.

“Heh. Heh heh. Heh heh heh.” The thought had made him giddy and excited, sure. “So All Might has become a degraded boss, heh.”

Giddy, and very much _pissed off._ “But that's annoying. So, so, so _annoying._ I was about to beat his ass; bought the official guide and everything!” His smirk died behind Father's hand.

He was in the middle of mumbling to himself when the communicator unit whirred to life; so unclear and full of static at first. Sensei was quick to assert his dominance over the electronic device.

“Good afternoon, my dear boy,” he said. “How's everything going?”

Tomura slammed his fist on the table. “Hey, Sensei! About damn time you showed up!”

“But of course, but of course,” said Sensei. “Thought you heard the news from the informant, haven't you?”

“Hell yeah, I did!” cried Tomura. “So, what the hell should I do now? You owe me the final boss battle _worth playing_!”

“I wouldn't be so sure about the _final boss_ part, my boy,” said Sensei. His voice was quite amused, like he always was – mostly at Tomura's expense. But this time he sounded almost... concerned. “If All Might does follow up with his _find a successor_ plan, who know? You might as well start preparing for the sequel under development.”

“Successor, schmuckessor,” Tomura growled. “I'll melt their face soon enough.”

“So you shall, I have no doubt,” said Sensei. “All the same, tsk tsk, it does look like our plan to test the new Noumu on All Might is not going to work out as well as I thought it would.”

“Why?” “It's flawless! We'll kill him for sure if he's so weakened he's calling for _successors_!”

“Think about it.” Sensei's voice dipped into the philosophical again. “The Symbol of Peace, perishing in _glorious battle_ against the _evil villains_ immediately after designating his successor. What a classic trope that would make theater-heads in Ancient Greece cry tears of joy.”

Tomura hated philosophy. So headache-inducing. So un-straightforward. So _tiring._ “What does some stupid dead people in Greece have to do with anything?”

“Well, not like I expect you to _get_ metaphor to begin with, my boy,” said Sensei. “Long story short, we kill him, we would be giving All Might a _good death_. Make him into a martyr for his own cause no less. That's just going to go _particularly_ well for us, I am sure.”

And then something in his head went _pop_. “So killing All Might _now_ would only make this rotten, corrupted, _inbred_ society stronger? That's cheating...”

“ _C'est la vie._ ” Sensei's French sounded downright ridiculous over the static. “He's played his card pretty well.”

“Hey, Sensei, guess what? I don't _care_ if he's played well! I play this game to win, and you'd better help me win! What do we do now?”

“Ah, I was expecting you to ask that, my boy,” The sharp amusement in Sensei's voice made Tomura want to smash something. “Would you like to play him a game of chess? Or a game of, you know, _real time strategy_?”

Tomura scratched his neck. “I'm no big fan of strategy games,” he said. “Too much effort, too little reward.” Strategy games, the lot of them, sort of made his head hurt worse.

“Oh, but All Might has issued his challenge,” Sensei said. “Would you begrudge him of a little... chess-like game?”

“Gonna be difficult as heck,” said Tomura.

“Is that so? I thought you're fond of games that gives you a challenge?” “Or are you telling me you're afraid of losing to All Might of all people?”

Suddenly Tomura saw red. “ _Never_ say I'm afraid of bloody _All Might!_ ” he cried. “Fine, fine, fine! I'm game. But you must tell me how to _play_ this thing first!”

“Let me tell you,” said Sensei. “Strategy games aren't much like the drab actiony fare for adrenaline junkies without two brain cells to rub together.” Sensei's voice was dreadfully gleeful. “It's all about being fast, being smart... and playing to your strength and their weakness. Come now, my boy. You've got so much to learn... and all the time in the world...”

Tomura wasn't sure he understood just about everything Sensei meant.

But he sure as hell liked the sound of that...

***

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes and Fanon:
> 
> \- Chapter title is a not-so-subtle nod to "Many Meetings".
> 
> \- Kamui's personality: I admit, I've kinda sorta made up a good chunk of his personality for the sake of this chapter (and this fic at large). I tried to made it at least consistent somewhat with canon: Kamui Woods being a serious-minded mature man, who, at the beginning of the story, was only a rising star rather than an established big player and therefore kind of not very rich; and may have a sarcastic side he doesn't show a lot (but since he would need the carthasis at some point it's not inconceivable that he's quite acerbic when he needs to be). 
> 
> \- All Might's decision: It's been hinted since the last chapter, and now the rabbit's out of the hat. I take it this particular scene has the potential to be an extremely controversial piece of characterization, so by all meants tell me what you think and I'll see what I can do.
> 
> \- Whack-a-Katsuki: I've got a comment elsewhere saying I've been cutting Katsuki too much slack. I hope this chapter would put him more in his place - but of course mileages might vary on this matter. Again, do tell me what you think!
> 
> \- The layout of the Misty Mountain: There are at least two passes through the MM in canon - the High Pass that the Company took, and at least one lower pass that is often harassed by and infested with goblins. All I'm doing here is rack up goblin activities about a notch or two.
> 
> \- We're nearing the Ring! Things are about to get interesting, and certainly not in the obvious way...


	19. Security Breaches

**CHAPTER 18**

**SECURITY BREACHES**

 

Izuku had spent the last evening and night on the longest sleep he recalled having since he stopped wearing diapers. 

He could remember dragging his feet home and trying not to cry or otherwise show a sore face in front of Mom, like a good boy. He could remember eating his dinner without much words like a good boy. He could remember falling into bed and draping his blanket over him and drift into slumber at nine, again like a good boy. His dream was, thankfully, bland and unmemorable; though he could swear he heard something like All Might saying ' _ You failed me _ ' in it, so vague and foggy, but it was there.

That wasn't important. 

What  _ was  _ important was, when he woke up at six the next day, the first thing Izuku knew was clarity. A good night's sleep made every morning feel like waking up in Rivendell. And with a clear mind, clear thoughts would flow forth. And here was what that thought sounded like:

_I have to try harder._

Izuku ran two extra laps around the block.

_I have to try harder._

Izuku whipped himself a very quick breakfast. Eggs and leftover beef and half a carton of milk.

 _I have to try harder_.

Izuku jogged his way to the train station, and thought if running all the way to U.A. would be a good idea tomorrow.

Baby steps, yes, but who said pushing self-improvement to the limit without breaking yourself had to be _fast_?

Besides, that All Might was disappointed with him was a fact that Izuku couldn't see himself changing any time soon. What he _could_ do, was to improve himself. Solidly. Steadily. Steadfastly. The human body, after all, was malleable and wouldn't fail those who put in the effort. Would it? If he would push himself, 'slow and steady', and maybe 'smart' like Bilbo liked to say, he might even get to win back the trust his idol and mentor had lost in him.

_I have to try harder._

Izuku marched through U.A. High's great arch like a soldier to the frontline. _A new day, a new beginning._

Unfortunately for him, the day had other plans for him.

The first clue was a fluster-faced Ms. Midnight half-running into the classroom with panicked steps.

“Young ladies and gentlemen,” she said with a huff. “We have a problem. My teaching material for today is gone.”

Two seconds of silence for the class to process the information. Then there was a collective “Eeeh?” from both the hard-working and the lazy half of the class.

“School server's down this morning. Cyber-attack out of nowhere,” explained Ms. Midnight. “Next time I'll not store _all_ my teaching material there for sure.”

“But isn't U.A.'s servers one of the most secure places on the Internet?” exclaimed Yaoyorozu. “I mean the only places harder to break into is _military_ databases like the _Pentagon_ , right?”

“Don't know about the Pentagon, dear, but our school database clearly isn't _that_ secure,” said Midnight. “Let's just say this morning _something_ happened – don't ask me about the details – that left the entire I.T. Department quarantining the entire thing, the hare-brains! I've just come to the office and they hammered my computer with a _not working_ sign, imagine that!”

“But – but that is unacceptable, Miss Midnight!” Iida cried. “U.A. prides itself on its punctuality and reliability! Leaving itself wide open for hackers is a debacle and certainly no way for the best school in the country to-”

“You know what – Iida, isn't it? I agree completely.” She muttered under her breath. “ _Someone_ deserves a _whipping_ after this is over...” Izuku shivered a little. She would have sounded almost apologetic if she hadn't been a little... _overenthusiastic_ , so to speak.

Then she huffed again, and threw herself at the teacher's chair.

“Ah, what do I know, there isn't a whole lot I can cover without material,” she said resignedly. “Whatever am I going to do with you young lot now?”

Mineta's eyes were about to bulge out of their sockets. “Tell us your _stories_ from the days before the clothing regulation!” he leaped up and cried. He sat down only to find his chair had been pulled just _slightly_ out of place and tumbled bottom-first on the floor. Behind him, Tsuyu's frog-eyes were narrowed nonchalantly.

Ms. Midnight was not amused.

“Quirks aren't to be used willy-nilly in this class, Asui,” she said.

In the end, she did relent. Ms. Midnight spent a good part of the lesson recounting some of the more memorable stories from her decade of experience in the pro-hero scene. It was surprisingly harrowing for those who didn't know better, and unsurprisingly bitter at places too.

“This day last year I went on my last patrol with the Waterhorses,” she said. “Said they had to come back early 'cos their _kid_ had a fever of some sort.” She took a deep breath. “Nice people. Made for excellent heroes, until, well...”

There was that glint of _drunkenness_ in her eyes.

“Who cares about _getting married_ and _settle down_?” she exclaimed. “Better to devote your life to bringing up other people's brilliant young men and women, than have your own hate you for doing what's right.”

Tenya raised his hand so high he'd have touched the ceiling had they been in a lesser classroom. Todoroki was squeezing his fists so hard they turned white. Uraraka just looked... stunned.

“Anyway, next story,” she said, taking another deep breath and swatting all requests to butt in aside.

To the end of the bizarre lesson, of course, there wasn't anything explicitly R-18 either, to the disappointment of both Mineta and Kaminari.

The second clue of the day, was the absence of a crosshair-eyed rambunctious girl without much sense of personal space at lunchtime.

It had seemed nothing special at first: Mei did have a rather unhealthy habit of skipping lunch whenever she felt like doing something.

It wasn't until late in the afternoon while they were lounging around in the free period that Uraraka barged in through the door. She dashed over to his place, and tapped him in the shoulder.

“D-did you hear?” she said quickly. “Hatsume's- she's-” She swallowed a quick breath. “She's in the sick bay! Accident, I heard!”

***

Bilbo felt like taking a swig of water that wasn't there. Swallowing a piece of bread had never been harder in his life; it was so dry and flaky and the crumbs were sticking between his teeth. 

Halbarad gave him an understanding look. “Next stream shouldn't be a couple hours away,” he said, and tossed Bilbo his spare water-skin. It was hardly a mouthful, but Bilbo couldn't be more thankful.

Five days into the life of a scout and the misery was already mounting. Bilbo thought he was going a little faint and uppity. Not exactly because of the lack of creature comfort, or the wanting food and rest. No, it was the _trail_ itself that was driving him mad. There seemed to be no end to the upward slope, the rocks and the frost. Steam wrapped around the defile, a marvel of a scene until its novelty grew thin on the adventurers. 

The other dwarves weren't doing too well for themselves. Bofur had been grumbling (quietly and to himself at any rate) for the last eight hours or so. Nori looked like he was going to toss all his baggage somewhere scarce and – to his credit, was only not doing so because of his brother. Ori was trudging along, and his maps no longer looked crisp and clear, but smudged at places and wriggly-lined. Halbarad was looking fresh as he started out, but _he_ didn't count. Compared to the other sort of things the Rangers of the North must have done in the name of their race, this scouting run must have been something of a literal walk in the mountain.

As they scaled the mountain the air soon became thinner and colder, and the footing more treacherous. At places the path was so narrow a dwarf and a pony would have trouble walking abreast, more so with the cliff on either side. More than once Bilbo saw a cave that looked perfectly warm and cosy for a rest, only for Halbarad to take one glance at it, conclude 'goblin tracks', and steered them well away.

There were other instances of goblin-tracks too; some obvious and thick enough even Bilbo could see the indent in the dust made by small crooked feet.

Both groups had been on high alert. No fire had been lit but for a small torch for Bilbo's group, and he reckoned Gandalf would have a bag full of such light tricks as were inconspicuous for the main company. There had been consequently no cooking: which meant no steak, no fries and no sizzling sausages for breakfast and lunch and dinner and the pleasantries in-between. Menu of the days were dried berries and bread, and a few rations of dried meat Bombur had cooked up before. The sleepy-looking, fat dwarf might not be much, but he was a genius with preparing food on the fly – for which Bilbo couldn't be more grateful.

Once every few hours Halbarad would wrap his grey cloak about him and vanish into the shadow behind them. He would return without fail after an hour or so, bearing news from the main company. “All good,” he would say, equally without fail – meaning the main company was making good progress. Truly a fine sight for cloudy days.

Their manner of scouting had gone on for several days without incidents. Not _many_ incidents at any rate: they had certainly had several close calls with patrolling goblins – and on one occasion actually came to blows.

It was a swift and very brutal business. Two goblins were skirting too close to the rock behind which they were resting. The moon was up and very bright. Halbarad drew his bow, and twang went his arrows. The first goblin shrieked and fell off the cliff with an arrow between his eyes. The second was dispatched by Nori. He flicked his hand, and the goblin rolled down the slope until it vanished into the shadow with a flechette in its chest.

That was yesterday.

Now the scout group had been on even higher alert than before. They would look about and around constantly their neck-bones hurt, and cleaned their ears often lest the sound they missed hearing be their last. They would keep their backs bent and their heads low, and oftentimes would tiptoe rather than walk.

The sun was down and the moon barely visible above the cloud, and their quiet march had seen little good things. There was a maze of paths and ravines and trails beneath them: goblin country.

In the end, their search for water concluded abruptly, at a turn of the mountain pass. It was not a stream that they found, but goblins and many of them.

Out they poured from several crevices too dark to see into. They marched in single file along the narrow passes that twisted and turned like a many-headed snake, a couple dozen feet beneath the scouting party. They sang in their terrible guttural tongue, and those parts Bilbo could make out were disturbingly violent. They invoked the whip 'cruel and lashing', and the sword 'curved and wicked', and their battle-song was like a dirge celebrating the cruel mangling of fair creatures who yet lived in the lands beyond the Mountains.

The look on Nori's face suggested he regretted very deeply having ever joked about orcs in the night. Bofur looked like he could use several gallons of ale right about now.

Bilbo, too, felt his voice seizing a bit, and not entirely because of the goblin-stench. “Are they... marching to war?”

“Not quite, I think, or at least not _yet_ ,” said Halbarad. “These are not the finest of the goblins for sure: were such the case you would see more cuirasses of clever black iron, and jagged weapons made to cause pain rather than to vanquish besides.” He pointed his finger at the nearest few goblins, barely covered by stained loincloths and tattered rags. Little, too, did they bear in the ways of arms but for clutches of jagged javelins and shields cobbled together from rotting wood. “These would be their recruits and slaves, mustered from the bowel of the Mountains.”

“Pray they don't see us,” said Ori.

“Not likely,” said Halbarad. “Marching goblins rarely look up. But let us not give them cause to try.”

For the next hours the scouting party spoke nothing, but only trailed after the goblins. Halbarad was breathing normally, but Bilbo found himself holding his breath every so often, as if goblins could hear him if he should take a huff too loud. Suddenly the lack of water seemed small to the crushing weight of the huge army beneath their trail.

The moon had hardly set when their trailing came to an end. A very large shadow now fell upon the group, like a great eclipse had fallen upon the moon.

“Look, a checkpoint. And watchtower,” said Bofur, looking up at the object casting the shadow in the horizon. “Mahal, what a bulwark!”

Bilbo gulped. ' _What a bulwark_ ' was the understatement of their age.

The path Bilbo had been walking and the goblins' had converged into a small plateau. At the end of that plateau, towering over the group, was a very great fortress.

Like every other thing of goblin make, the stronghold was an ugly business: a rickety, thirty-feet-tall keep some five yards across, surrounded by palisades six feet high. The walls blocked off the ravine in its entirety, leaving no space tho wriggle through. The only path leading through the front gate was flanked by several shooting-nests, no doubt full of goblins snipers too. Bilbo squinted his eyes, and spotted above the converged path many rocks that seemed awfully out of place, no doubt connected to clever trip-wires or other deceptively deadly mechanisms.

Torch-flames dotted the battlement, carried by dark and crooked shadows. They were goblins, of course: perched along the walls, patrolling about those raised parapets of sticks and muds, and many more were atop the keep, doubtlessly pointing their twisted weapons at the path beneath. Everything about the fortress seemed specifically designed to keep intruders out and resist all but the most determined siege. By goblin-standard, anyway, though Bilbo could hardly imagine even the mightiest army of myths and legends having an altogether easy time storming such kind of holdfast.

“D-did goblins build _that_?” cried Nori softly. “Looks almost princely if you asked me!”

“Your definition of princely, o fellow, is rather out there,” jabbed Bofur.

“Well, what do we do now?” said “Shall we go back and ask for Thorin's decision?”

“We should,” said Halbarad. “Though I dare not hope he would have an obvious solution. This here fortress is equipped to withstand a siege by many Men and Elves armed with all the siege weapon devised in ages past.”

“Shall we find another way?” said Bofur. “There _has_ to be another unguarded pass, right, Master Halbarad?”

“Can we fly above or tunnel below?' suggested Ori.

The stare Ori got from his own brother and Bofur was best described as _vicious._ “Say what?” exclaimed Bofur.

“What?” said Ori. “If we can't go through it, it's either under or over!”

“How're we going under? Or over?” cried Bofur. “Would take an entire colony of dwarves years to tunnel beneath that thing, and in case you missed the obvious, my dear lad, _dwarrows cannot fly_!”

Nori only shook his head tiredly, as if saying ' _See, told you letting him go with us isn't at all a good idea._ '

Halbarad looked a lot more thoughtful. Then just as Bilbo thought he would, he wrapped his cloak tight around his shoulder.

“I shall consult with Master Gandalf,” he said, “for he might know things we do not. Pray stay well hidden, Master Dwarves, and keep your heads out of view! Tough as your heads might be, it might be bored by but a single arrow!”

Then he left their hiding place, and vanished into the moon-glazed path behind.

Being alone with three grumpy, tired and unamused dwarves hadn't been one of Bilbo's best moments in life.

***

“Inhaled knockout gas?”

Ochako and Midoriya exclaimed almost in unison.

Of all the reasons you could get hospitalized while inside the U.A. campus, that had to be the most ridiculous. (Correction, that _would_ have been ridiculous had _Kirishima_ not suffered it first, on the first day of school no less. Of all the nicknames Bakugou could have given him, 'sleep-face' might not sound the silliest, but it definitely was the most insulting.)

“She was experimenting with a way to make a sample of Midnight's gas into grenades, and obviously it didn't work out very well,” said Recovery Girl. “Thank the heavens, hers wasn't terribly harmful as far as oneirogens go.” She shook her head. “Still did to the poor lass exactly what knockout gas does best. Slept like a rock since ten in the morning.”

“Is she awake?” said Ochako. “Can we-”

“Yes she is.” Recovery Girl coughed. “Lass' sturdier than you would think, but don't tell her I said that. You kids sure have a way of getting into _trouble_ , aren't needing more encouragement on that matter,” she said, then whipped her head over to Uraraka. “My dear Uraraka, you better not follow their example and stay away from the clinic if you can.”

“I'll... uh, try,” she said.

Then Recovery Girl let them in.

The U.A. sick bay had an unsettling quality about it. Something with everything being white, or the smell of antiseptic, or simply the fact that the likeness of _hospitals_ had a way to unnerve a perfectly healthy and active girl who couldn't even bear the thought of sitting in a place for long.

There on one of the beds sat Hatsume, still wearing her sleeveless engineer shirt rather than any sort of school uniform. She was sitting upright, rubbing her face and yawning. She looked a little pale and groggy – the latter was solved after she seized the cup on the table and gulped it down in one go in a most unladylike manner.

After all the crazy sort they'd been through, Ochako couldn't help feeling it a little _weird_ that it wasn't Midoriya lying on the sick bed.

“Mommy?” she said, then looked up. “Oh, it's just you guys.”

“Came as soon as we heard!” exclaimed Ochako. “Are you alright? Hurt anywhere?”

“Not that I know of,” Hatsume said. “Is it New Year yet?” she asked mistily. “Thought I heard like one hundred and eight bell tolls just now.”

“Uh, Hatsume, are you sure you're...” Midoriya's voice trailed a little “...uh, _fine_?”

His concern earned him a guffaw. “I'm joking!” Hatsume said. “Head's still a little spinning though...”

Ochako folded her arms and puffed her cheeks. “Seriously,” she said. “You'd better take better care of yourself!”

“Eh, I was careless all right,” she said. “My quirk isn't all sunshine and rainbow and ponies and friendship being magic, you know. Lose focus for a bit and my eyesight becomes like a far-sighted schmuck without glasses.” She waved her hand left and right. “Could be worse; could have got my finger snagged in some gears or something. Not like I would mind working with prosthetics, but dontcha think it's a little too early in my career to lose extremities?”

Izuku frowned. “That sort of talk invites bad luck, Hatsume!”

“Bad luck? Me? Surely you jest, I'm the luckiest girl this side of the train track!” She puffed her chest. “In fact I'm so lucky you'd get some of it simply by hanging around, ha!”

Perhaps the only positive thing about the whole business was that Hatsume had taken her falling unconscious in stride, Ochako thought, and shook her head.

“I can't imagine Ms. Recovery Girl giving you an easy time,” she said. “I'd prepare some earplugs if I were you.”

Hatsume covered her mouth and giggled behind her hand. “Nah, not my fault I ate a face full of sleeping gas, she says, ' _because that's what teachers are there to prevent_ '.” The girl did an air quote. “Said she'd give Power Loader an earful about skimping students' safety standards. I fear for his life.” She reclined against the fluffy pillow and looking so very pleased with herself. “On the plus side I did get to skip double Modern Hero Arts for the afternoon. It won't be missed.”

Midoriya quirked a brow and glanced at Ochako. “Well, you know,” he said. “There's basically no class this afternoon. Or this morning. Anything except homeroom, actually. And I mean the whole school.”

Hatsume catapulted up. “Wait, _what_?”

 _Oh yeah. She doesn't know. “_ Didn't you hear the announcement on the PSA?” Ochako said. “Random cyber attack on school database last night.”

Ochako could swear Hatsume's crosshair-irises were expanding like a balloon being pumped. “Really?” Hatsume said breathlessly “How did it go? Sensitive data leaked? Confidential student info sold on the black market? Incriminating telegraphs passed on to public enemies?” Ochako didn't know if she was anxious, or just _excited_.

“Relax, Hatsume,” said Midoriya. “They didn't get very far – U.A.'s security system not for show after all – but pretty much every teacher's teaching material this week got wiped.”

“Which is a mixed blessing, really.” Ochako shrugged one shoulder. “So we spent half the afternoon listening to Present Mic gushing about his favorite English author; a Sir Terry-something-or-another. Other half was free.” she said. “Why do you think we're here chatting with you rather than dragging our feet like zombies to the station?”

Now Uraraka would never admit laziness, no sirs and madams! She just really had a bad run with English, that was all. Not unlike the typical Japanese teenage girl, nothing to see here.

But then Hatsume's eyes widened.

“I am so _personally_ insulted I wasn't there!” she said with mock indignation. “So much I could have learnt from! What kind of code were they using? What was the security gap? What-”

“Hatsume, if it'd been you, you'd have probably done a way better job,” Ochako said. “I heard the attempt was kind of amateur; the attackers weren't even intending to mess up the teachers' files. They were just trying to grab some sort of really mundane information from the server. Left a mess all over the place in the process. Right, Midoriya?”

“Yeah,” said Midoriya. He folded his arm and looked slightly downwards, and at once seemed like he was about to start mumbling again. Thankfully, what escaped his mouth was entirely audible. “It's really... odd though. What kind of suicidal hacker would go after U.A. servers of all places? If they're after teacher information they could have attacked their hero agencies' servers, It would be so much easier, and the victim would have to swallow it because it's so _embarrassing_ getting hacked these days _._ Besides, pretty sure the teachers could track them down in a couple hours at the latest.”

“You never know,” said Hatsume. “If I weren't legit into the whole hero business, trying to hack my way into U.A.'s servers would be a pretty good way to flaunt my skill and build reps with the shady sort. As a bragging right it's almost like wrecking government databases, only you aren't as likely to get a career-ending prison term for compromising state secrets-”

Hatsume threw her hand to her mouth on reflex and quickly glanced at the door. It was only Recovery Girl, hands at her hip and shaking her head.

“Well, well, well, already chatty and chipper, eh?” she said.

“Uh, yeah, sort of, Miss,” said Hatsume. “It's only knock-out gas-”

“Knockout gas that, let me remind you, Hatsume, can cause permanent brain damage if you take in too much at once,” she looked gravely at a slightly paling Hatsume. “Not going to be so useful to other heroes any more with your noggin shot, are you?”

“Y-yeah, you've got a point, I suppose, Miss,” she said sheepishly.

“Can you stand?” said Recovery Girl, holding out two fingers. “How many fingers have I here?”

“Three, or four maybe?” Hatsume said dreamily, before snapping back to her _normal_ face at Recovery Girl's frown. “I'm joking, I'm joking, it's two, two!”

Recovery Girl scowled and made a 'kids these days' face. But Midoriya and Ochako was already pulling Hatsume to her feet, and aside from a bit of swaying at first she didn't seem all that off-balance.

“Come this way,” Recovery Girl check. “Final check-up, and then I can let you go your merry way.”

***

The checkup was a lot less problematic than Mei thought it would be. Still, she wouldn't want to talk about it, like at all. Something about medical examination, the lot of them - she couldn't pin down exactly what, but they had never _not_ given her the creeps. She was only glad it was over and done-

Recovery Girl was accommodating enough, and nudged her out of the checkup area.

“Well, seems you're all good,” she said. “Next time be very careful handling dangerous gasses! My quirk isn't very helpful in case of permanent damage!”

“I'll try,” said Hatsume, her shoulder still quivering a little even as she returned to the safety of her friends.

Recovery Girl gave her a glare that said 'I'm watching you'. And then she turned around to Midoriya – he probably didn't expect that; his shoulder jerked with a start.

“Oh, and since you're already here, Midoriya,” she said, “I might as well have a chat on a certain matter right away – if you don't mind. How're you holding up today?”

“Ah, well, quite well, Miss,” Izuku said, and his smile was genuine. Awkward and sheepish, but genuine. “Doing better... I think.”

“Not pushing yourself, I hope?” she said. “Because I know who to pinch the ear off of if I found you've been neglecting yourself.”

Mei bit her lip. _Whoa, hey, hey, hey, a doctor threatening a patient? This is scandalous!_

Funnily enough, Izuku did not at all seem to be threatened. He only smiled, as he did so often. “I'll try, Miss,” he said.

“Good,” Recovery Girl said, “because I thought it's time to talk proper equipment with you and how it goes with whatever conditioning scheme we're having here. I thought the injury your suffered last time was a travesty if I ever saw one.” She turned on her chair towards Mei. “So, Hatsume, I heard you've been trying to tweak Midoriya's costume?”

“Well, uh, sort of, Miss,” she said. “Nothing special; just adding padding and support for his throwing arm and stuff. Oh, and I've been thinking of other kind of munitions he could use too – like bouncing betties, flechette shrapnels, flashbangs, and heat-seeking warheads and knockout rounds and-”

Recovery Girl frowned. “Now I see what exactly happened when your accident went down,” she said, and what could Mei have said but scratch the back of her head sheepishly? That was _exactly_ what happened all right. “No, I mean _Apart from_ all that explosive stuff,” she said. “Things like gloves and boots and maybe bodysuit enhancements, additions meant to support bones and muscles. I'd like to have a look at your design.”

_Oh, that. Not that I've got much of apparel in mind though..._

“Sure, Miss,” Mei said anyway. “But uh... just for the record, I still have copyright, yes?”

“Copyright?”

Mei gave her an angular, almost robotic nod. “Copyright,” she said. “Power Loader said I should get a portfolio and put everything I've ever made in it, and register them and everything. Said support companies are all over young graduates with a suitably impressive portfolio.”

“Thinking about your future early, yes?” said Recovery Girl. “Sure, that's your creation, your intellectual property. I'll just need to see your tweaks – see if it would work well with Midoriya or not. His quirk is very-”

“Peculiar,” Mei said. “We've known.”

“Have you now?” said Recovery Girl, and there was a tinge of alarm in her voice.

Something clicked in Mei's head. _Oh? Something you're hiding, Midoriya?_

If Uraraka had got the clue, she didn't show it. “Just a little, though,” she added. “There doesn't seem to be many people with body-breaking quirks out there, is there, Miss?”

Recovery Girl's gaze relaxed a little. “Of course not,” she said. “That's why I thought we'd better take good care of those unfortunate boys and girls who _do_ have those... very mixed blessing.”

“Sure we have to,” Mei said, “if Midoriya _cooperates_.” She thwacked him on the shoulder. “Right, Midoriya?”

“He will, if he knows what's good for him,” said Recovery Girl dryly. Midoriya's freckled face turned a little rosy at the jab.

Mei blinked.  _ Freckled boys aren't supposed to blush. That makes them criminally cute _ . 

She took a deep, deep,  _ deep  _ breath. “Yeah, Miss, I think I can do that,” she said. “But please please  _ please  _ be quick about it! I mean Midoriya kind of  _ needs _ that something to function well, doesn't he?”

“You can trust me with that,” said Recovery Girl. “A bit of... ahem- professional interest, if you don't mind the turn of phrase.”

Then Recovery Girl glanced at the clock on the white wall. “Anyway, you children best get going soon,” she said. “I'd be heading off to USJ in a couple minutes.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Izuku. “Is it for the field exercise next week?”

Recovery Girl laughed. “Couldn't be more obvious, now, could it?” she said. “But yes; it's Thirteen's class, and he's ever fastidious about training you kids in how to not just save lives but also  _save lives_ . Expect a mock field hospital and a basic run-down on first-aid, triage and stabilizing victims.”

Hatsume thumped Uraraka and Izuku on the shoulders. “Why do you Heroics get all the nice stuff?” she said.

“Well, Support shall have their USJ excursion at some point this year I think,” said Recovery Girl. “Visits to disaster sites tend to give smart lads and lasses in your class a  _lot_ of ideas.”

_Fascinating_ , Mei thought. Something to look forward to at least: taking apart and putting together machinery was getting boring sometimes. 

Midoriya, being Midoriya, was at once asking questions. “Will there be any surprises, Miss?” he said. “What should we be expecting?”

Recovery Girl puffed her chest and cast a glance across the three students like a commander reviewing the front row of an army formation.

“Midoriya, there's one rule to the medical profession and that is, ' _expect complications even for the simplest cases_ ',” she said. “Now think the same of the hero profession. End of the day, we're doing basically the same thing: keeping Death's cold bony hands away from people who have no business dying just yet. Complications and surprises is the name of the game.”

The look on Midoriya's face said, he _really_ liked the sound of that. “I'll do my best then!” he said.

“Well, we done, children?” said Recovery Girl. “Now clear off your stuff, we'll be evacuating on the double-”

Recovery Girl's office phone chose that _exact_ moment to begin ringing. The old woman cleared her voice, gestured the trio to keep their quiet, then pressed the old phone's loudspeaker button. For good reason: the old lady probably wasn't good with her ears any more.

“Recovery Girl here. What's the medical emergency?”

The voice on the other side was gruff and grumpy – two words best used to describe Mr. Aizawa.  _“There's a situation in USJ,”_ he said.  _“We need you there ASAP.”_

“Mr. Aizawa?” Recovery Girl furrowed her brows. “What  _kind_ of situation?”

_“Security breach.”_ said Mr. Aizawa curtly. _“Two students are involved. Bring casualty kit.”_

At once the room felt like it was covered in a layer of frost. Mei began to shiver as a soft ' _Tch_ ' left Recovery Girl's parched lips. “Hold it right there. I'm on my way.”

Then Recovery Girl switched off the phone and immediately dove for the emergency medical supply box.

“Ms. Recovery Girl?” Izuku raised his arm. “Can we- Do you need-”

“No,” she said. “You children go home and sit tight.”

Her voice was cold and devoid of any humor whatsoever.

***

It turned out _leaving the school_ wasn't a very good idea as it seemed at first. Hardly had the trio walked past the campus gate when at once all their phones started to ring.

Uraraka was the first to flip her phone “Public service announcement?” she said.

“ _Citizens in the following wards are advised to stay indoors and keep their doors locked_ ,” Izuku read. “Hold on... this list has no business being that long!” His fingers danced on the touchpad: he was bringing up the news application and internet browsers. “Heavens, there are villain attacks all over Greater Tokyo!”

Mei's phone, too, was filled with pictures: Fire and smoke, and vague silhouettes behind the cover of dust too far away from the camera to see clearly. The headlines were nothing less than fear-mongering: “ _MASSIVE VILLAIN ATTACK_ ”; “ _TERRIBLE ASSAULT-MURDER IN MUSUTAFA_ ”; “ _CHAIN INCIDENT BAFFLES HEROES_ ”; “ _HUNDREDS IN RED ZONE, DOZENS FEARED DEAD_ ”; and of course the most sensationalist of them all: “ _FRIDAY HORROR ATTACKS: A GLIMPSE INTO THE PAST WAR?_ ”

“A villain taking hostage in Shinjuku,” said Midoriya. “Three counts of arson and vandalism in Tokyo port area. Disturbances of public order in Kouriban, Dantouin, Enda and Mana'an Wards. About half a dozen cases of armed holdups and other undisclosed incidents.” He clenched his fist. “And of course whatever is happening in USJ.”

“Speaking of that,” said Uraraka. “What _exactly_ is happening in USJ? Saw anything on your side of the 'net?”

“Situation still unconfirmed. No livestream,” Midoriya said, shaking his head. “Pretty sure that's some kind of a villain attack too, from the looks of it.”

“Anything about the student though?” Mei asked. Her lips were trembling; not because of any real palpable fear, but an ephemeral and vague “ _it could have been me or someone I know_ ” kind of deal.

“Could be an upperclassman,” said Uraraka. “They're getting a lot more field training too, aren't they? You know, for their provisional hero certificate exams?”

“If a student gets hurt in a surprise villain attack...” Midoriya's voice trailed off. He was hardly breathing, and who could blame him? This wasn't like any isolated villain incident resolved in five minutes flat like they usually saw on the news on the news. This was more like a declaration of war on the public. _But from whom and by whom?_

Uraraka swallowed hard. “Do you think the teachers can... resolve it?” she said.

“Of course they can!” Mei cried, despite herself. “They're heroes, right? Heroes get paid, get equipped, get their names PR'd to the Moon and back, only to settle this sort of thing! What would they be good for if they can't even resolve a hostage crisis?”

Midoriya and Uraraka were looking at her weirdly. Not a very good thing, that outburst of hers, but Mei _really_ couldn't help herself this one time.

This was her world, this was her place in it: to do well in school, make clever tools that impress companies, to get her gear worn by some big-shot heroes and get her share of fame and wealth. All of that, _all_ of that, hinged on the ability of heroes to effectively quell threats and uphold public order... on the reputation of heroes as _helpful protectors of the peace._ What would the world be like to a girl destined for hero-support when heroes failed to do what they were supposed to do?

That, or Midnight's drug had ' _making you terribly uppity and anxious_ ' as an unwritten side-effect. Mei wouldn't know or care very much at this point.

“A-anyway, we should go home a-and get some rest,” she said. “Yeah, and come back to school tomorrow and turn on the news and learn that everyone's k-kind of okay!”

She was just about to break into a run towards the train station. But then she turned around: Midoriya's footsteps was slowing. Before long he had stopped walking altogether, staring at the phone in his trembling hands.

“Midoriya?”

He looked positively _frightened_.

“Don't you think it's a little _strange_ ,” he said quickly, “for Mr. Aizawa to ring Ms. Recovery Girl about an emergency, after hour, from his office phone to her office number?” He looked up and swept his gaze across the two girls. “The same Mr. Aizawa who has on average two mobile devices on his person, on standby at any given moment?”

Uraraka's brows quirked; then she, too, let off a gasp. “And... if it's a villain attack,” she said, “wouldn't it be unwise to call the doctor _before_ making sure the coast is clear? Ms. Recovery Girl's quirk isn't for fighting!”

The sound Mei just heard was three figurative lightbulbs going off atop their head. “Are you guys...” she said, “thinking what I'm thinking?”

The moment of revelation was not to last.

Hardly had Midoriya opened his mouth to say something conclusive... when the sirens about them started blaring.

Then came an explosion so, so _very_ close...

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes and Fanon:
> 
> \- IT BEGINS.
> 
> \- I might be getting Hero Arts History really wrong here, but it does sound to me as a subject that Midnight wouldn't teach very well without teaching aid. So when her slides goes poof, so does her ability to hold a coherent classroom.
> 
> \- I might have headcanon'd my way through Mei and Midnight's personality a bit. Let me know if you see anything off.
> 
> \- The name of the fictional wards in Tokyo goes as: Kouriban (公理番), Dantouin (暖冬院), Enda (円田) and Mana'an (茉奈庵). In other news, KoTOR was fun while it lasted...
> 
> \- I am really pushing for the Mei-Izuku-Ochako Golden Trio dymanism if it doesn't seem obvious yet. It is not without reason that I posted the “Ochako reincarnates as Ronald Weasley” snippet in the BNHA ideas thread on Spacebattles...


	20. You, and Whose Army?

**CHAPTER 19**

**YOU, AND WHOSE ARMY?**

 

Kurogiri was a simple man with a simple name and a couple of simple missions: To kill All Might and keep Shigaraki Tomura safe – preferably in that order. 

Meaning, meeting with unsavory, disappointing, sociopathic dredges of humanity was part and parcel of the job. Which included such trash as the oh-so-delightful fellow gesturing madly inside  _ his  _ pub lounge.

“So, let me get this straight.” By the heavens, his growling voice was a pain to hear. “You're paying good money for me, the one and only Trapezius Headgear, and his one and only merry band, to assault U.A. - that has nothing defending it but some dumb robots, a dumber wall and maybe a few children, while other lesser wannabes stir up trouble all over the city?”

Trapezius Headgear – that was his villain name – looked quite a fair bit less intimidating when he wasn't busy roiding up on whatever his quirk was. There was the hood of muscle over his head still – that was where his name come from and it was there to stay – but the rest of his proportions was much more human: otherwise he wouldn't have fitted through the doorway. 

In fact, now that Kurogiri had seen him in person, it became all the more obvious the brute was a big coward at heart – only into the villain business because honest nine-to-five was too much work for a big bully. His sweeping gestures were too obviously overcompensating: his legs were shaking a little, and so were the corners of his mouth. Why wouldn't he? Here he was facing an employer who had helpfully demonstrated, by way of yet another of Kurogiri's old wineglasses, that he could turn anything into dust in a blink of an eye: and therefore immune to any sort of intimidation attempt whatsoever.

Shigaraki did not say it our loud, but there was this  _ bored  _ look in his eyes that said, ' _ when can I relieve myself of this idiot? _ ' “Yeah, that's what I said like two seconds ago,” he said instead. “And?”

“And?  _And_ ?”  _Such annoying voice_ , Kurogiri thought. “What do you take me for? Useless rubbish meant to deal with whiny kids and a wall?”

_Ah, time for the cincher._

“I wouldn't call them  _whiny kids_ in any way, shape or form,” Kurogiri said. He casually flipped a button the remote control, then went back to cleaning the countertop.

The screen flashed to life, and on it appeared footage of a few children – no doubt U.A.'s newest batch – wrecking merry havoc in a training facility. Highlights included a boy who was the human equivalent of an arsenal, another boy who could freeze entire building blocks in one stomp, a girl who could materialize a variety of things from her own body... and a certain boy who weaponized taunting and turned it into an art form.

As to how they got that footage? Kurogiri would say Sensei was an exceptionally well-prepared man, and leave it at that,

 _“Oh, and in preparation for this glorious inauguration of your generalship, Tomura my boy,”_ Sensei had said the other day, _“I've had some trusted support people carry out a certain... information scouting run through U.A.'s servers. Got some interesting films you might like, too.”_

Took the hood-headed punk fifteen seconds to have all his cockiness melted away. 

“A-are you sure there's no mistake?' he said. “These are... their first-year kids?”

Shigaraki gave him an idle look. “Yeah, yeah, you know the drill, the stronger the random encounter the better the drop,” he said with a yawn. “Now, meat-for-hair, this enough of a challenge mode for your gang? Right up your alley, huh? Then go out there and kill us some minibosses.”

He drew himself closer to the villain. Trapezius Headgear, the _chicken_ , was backing off one full step for every of Shigaraki's half-step.

“I-I doubt the pros would give us free rein to just stroll about U.A. and-”

Enormously amusing as it was to see a massively roided fellow shying away by lanky, twiggy Shigaraki, there was always the possibility his charge-slash-master would _really_ melt his face off. Not this time, thankfully. Shigaraki helpfully drew himself back just as the other villain's back touched the wall.

“Would they?” he said. “You said it yourself, other _wannabes_ are stirring up trouble elsewhere. Besides, it's not like your task is enormously difficult or anything.” He wagged his pointer finger. “All your boys need to do, is be a human siege engine. Wreck their buildings before their main army returns.”

Now Kurogiri would not call himself sadistic – oh no, sir, his was the kind of polite, honorable insidiousness – but there was something quite satisfying, seeing a bully exposed for what he really was.

It took Trapezius Headgear roughly a century and a half to swallow whatever bile that had churned up his windpipe. He stared at the screen, then at Kurogiri (because gawking at a mass of humanoid mist was such a productive use of their time”, and finally back at Shigaraki. His hands clenched into fists – what feeble attempt to regain dominance.

“Fine!” he shouted. “It's just an empty school with _maybe_ some kids, right? I'll-I'll have the boys know we're taking this job. But you'd better make it worth our time; we're the famous Headgear Gang after all!”

“And more,” said Shigaraki. “Payment, glory... even a place at my side as a general of the new knightly order of villains if you do well enough.” He removed his father's hand from his face for once. “Well? Trapezius Headgear? Are you good enough? Are you _man_ enough?”

“Y-you bet I am!”

“Then get the hell out of here,” he said. “And get rolling. The League of Villain has no use for slackers.”

Without another word Trapezius Headgear stormed off, and slammed the door shut on his way out.

“Ah, what a pain,” said Shigaraki. _Speak my very mind._ Damn idiot, thought Kurogiri, now Kurogiri would have to fix the hinges _again_.

But he had something else to care for now: Shigaraki himself. “Shigaraki Tomura,” he said. “Sure you don't need some sleep? You've been going without for-”

Shigaraki put his father's hand back on his face, at once hiding his chuckle. “I'm just gettting started,” said him. “Why, strategy games might be cooler than I thought it is. So, so painfully slow, but so rewarding...” His scraping chuckle was rather harsh on the ears. “Even mere cannon fodder have their uses. Doesn't mean I have to like _training_ them.”

Whether it was Sensei's brainwashing – and Kurogiri would know, the old bastard was the undisputed _king_ in that regard, literally and figuratively – or some kind of strange switch in Shigaraki's head he'd just flipped, the fellow had changed overnight. The bloodlust in his eyes, the drawl in his voice, the scratching of his neck... they were there to stay, but his back was straighter and occasionally there would be that spark in his eye; like he'd found some kind of salvation or ingenuity previously buried deep beneath his own surface.

Shigaraki Tomura fashioned himself something of a tactician now. Strange, the sort of thinking gaming could instill in impressionable sorts like his charge. Kurogiri wouldn't say the change was entirely for the better, but his current plan was better than sending dozens of unprepared thugs to their ignoble arrest and/or death just for a _shot_ at killing All Might. Way better.

“Well, Kurogiri?” drawled Shigaraki. “What's next on the schedule? Who'm I to see? Someone other than common thugs on the streets.”

“Well, I think that should be it,” said Kurogiri. “You've done enough, Shigaraki Tomura, cowing all these petty criminals like you've just done. Now, please, get yourself some rest – it's going to be a long afternoon.”  _And a very long night._

For long Shigaraki said nothing. His eyes was on the detached computer mouse on the counter, apparently finding it terribly mesmerizing.

When he did say something again, it was not an answer for Kurogiri. “Now if you are to choose, All Might,” he said. “what shall it be? The unit specifically designed to counter you and deal massive collateral damage? Or your precious, precious area of recruitment?”

… Kurogiri bowed before Sensei's ability as, well, a teacher. A twisted, manipulative and altogether frighteningly omniscient teacher, and indisputably the best _because_ of that.

***

The dwarves had stopped grumbling for now. Not because of any newfound agreement or sense of brotherhood, but rather Bilbo's reminder that goblins' hearing was quite acute in the dead of night. Now they had taken position behind a very large rock – with Bilbo crouching on top of it – two furlongs from the entrance into the plateau.

There was not a lot to observe, and Bilbo cursed his encroaching old age: he could swear as a faunt his eyesight was much keener, and would have needed no moonlight to see the whites in the eyes of those goblins perched on the parapets. As it was, the movement about the place had ground to a halt. The last goblin march must either have been a reinforcement wave, or a change of the guards. The torches were flashing still atop the battlement: goblins could be quite vigilant when their wicked hearts were in it, so went hobbitish wisdom anyway.

Now Bilbo's thirst was scraping at the back of his throat and tried not to think ill of the ranger for his tardiness. Halbarad, as he had usually done over the past few days, had got an unspoken promise; to bring supplies whenever he returned. But it had become apparent that Halbarad wasn't coming any time soon – and that meant any hope for reinforcement, food and water with him. It had been, to Bilbo's best estimation, a little more than two hours since he had left.

He emptied the very last drops in the water skin into his parched mouth. It wasn't enough, of course, and he wasn't the only one to feel the bite of thirst. Nori was swallowing and smacking his lips. Bofur was repeatedly uncapping and capping his water-skin, as though so doing would magically make water appear.

Before long Nori was raising a hand and a voice. “I suppose someone would have to go find something for us to drink,” he said. “Well, I could go, but I've got to keep my brother and the enemy under watch.”

“And I haven't much need for water yet,” said Bofur – and that was a bold-faced lie if Bilbo had ever seen one. “Mr. Baggins, if you would be so kind, I thought Nori and Ori would appreciate some – if you can find it.”

“Right,” said Bilbo incredulously. “Any useful clue as to how I can dig up some water in these parts?” He licked his lips. This _really_ wasn't a good time for an argument of any kind.

For the second time, Ori's hand shot up.

“Well I could help!” he said. “I'll go with you, Master Baggins, if you're going. Don't think I've spotted any water about, but I'm good at digging up things hidden from plain sight. Better than let you wander around alone and maybe run into a goblin patrol!”

At once Nori jumped to his feet. “Ori, uh, that's not what I-”

“Well, of  _course_ that's not what you wanted,” said Ori with a huff. “What  _you_ wanted is a nice, cosy, luxurious life where you don't have to work so hard for anything.” He took a large gulp of air. “And you, too, Bofur, adventures aren't the place for pub-crawlers – well, wouldn't be in better days but now we have to make do and all that.” 

Nori's eyes went goggly, while Bofur looked like if he'd had a precious drink in his mouth right then he would have spat it out.

Bilbo, too, took a step back. Where did all the venom come from?

“Mister Ori?” said Bilbo. “What troubles you so?”

“Too many to count, Master Bilbo,” said Ori. “Enough that I've got an older brother whose only idea of 'contribution' is stealing things from under people's noses who's friends with an useless former noble! I should like to be more than a bookish lad living under people's shadows, and this ain't the way, I tell you!” He drew a very stiff breath. “What would it take for  _real_ heroes to take up the mantle these days?”

Bilbo narrowed his eyes. “Heroes?” And then, in that moment when Nori's face blanched and Bofur was grumbling something about 'peace and quiet', understanding dawned upon Bilbo; and with it came deep sympathy. “Could it be that you should like to become a hero, Master Ori?”

The words were familiar enough to Bilbo's ears –

“You can bet your one-twenty-eighth I do!” said Ori. He was just about to raise his voice into a shout, which would have been a terribly unwise thing. His wits were about him, fortunately, and his exclamation was barely louder than his normal voice.

Nori was looking, well, not quite flustered and befuddled. No, the rogue-dwarf's beard was hanging dejectedly at the corner of his mouth, and his eyes were drooping. _Poor chap_.

“This is embarrassing,” he finally said, “and you know it, brother mine.”

Ori blinked. “What's embarrassing about wanting to become a hero?” he said. “To be well known? To bring pride to our father's name – wherever in Mahal's name he is now?”

“No, that's not... it,” he said. Now he sighed and looked at the ground. He opened his mouth, as if to say something terribly profound and personal, but the words seemed to have perished in his breath. Finally he looked to Bilbo.

“You know what? I changed my mind,” he said. “I'll go with you, Master Baggins. See if we can find some water, and let Bofur sit around and wait for the Ranger to come back! And you, too, Ori. I'll do what I can – so stay sharp and-”

“No,” was the young dwarf's answer. “I want to _do_ things, too. And never say I can't! If I cannot, I would never have been on this quest – that no dwarf-scholar has ever been on before!”

Now Bilbo hadn't overly fond of Nori. To be fair he didn't have grudge enough in him to actively dislike any of the dwarves. But Nori hadn't exactly been his favorite since the beginning of the journey. A bit ironic, really: employed as a burglar though he might have been, Bilbo was at his heart a gentle-hobbit, and all gentle-hobbits were wont to hate dishonest, selfish and pilfering sorts with a passion.

But perhaps the wisdom about dwarves, as was about any other free people, really, was that even the best needed the right nudges in the right direction to make the right choice and do the right thing. When Bilbo stripped away all that made Nori an unsavoury sort – his odious humour, his sneaking, his thieving, his shirking of any and every duty considered dangerous and not worth it – what _was_ he? All that remained was a brother who cared deeply for his own in his own way.

And Ori? Izuku might not have realized it yet, even when he'd say yes to the dwarf's request, but the two of them were cut from the same cloth: young folk mesmerized by heroes and heroics, born into unflattering circumstances, and drawing their strength from the people they idolized.

Somehow Bilbo had appeared to the bookish dwarf like an All Might of his very own.

And that implied responsibility. To guide. To protect. To nurture and mentor.

So thinking, Bilbo drew in a lungful of cold, thin Misty Mountains draft, and spoke the only thing he could have.

“Actually, I daresay the fewer the better,” he said. “Less chance of goblins spotting us, and we need someone to keep watch when Master Halbarad returns besides. Master Ori can help me with keeping records and maps, and if he's really good at smelling out secret places, well, all the better.”

“Then take me, my dear chap!” cried Nori. “Anything Ori can do I can do twice as good, or my name's not Nori!”

“That is true,” said Bilbo. “That's why I'll ask you to do the tougher and more dangerous work.” “Would you not prefer to keep an eye on the goblins here – who could spew ouit of that crevice at any time, mind you, and leave Ori to me?” There was a sparkle in his eyes and a beaming grin on his face. “It's all right. Why? _Because I am here!_ ”

Who said he was too old to learn new tricks from someone worth learning from?

Nori waved his hands wildly. “But-”

“I can take care of myself well enough, brother,” said Ori. “Isn't that what you've always wanted? Little Ori one day no longer needing someone to care for him? Well that's what I intend to do!”

For some time the rogue stared at his brother, then Bilbo, then his brother again. “Nothing I can say would dissuade you, isn't it?” he said.

“Not today, brother mine,” said Ori. “Like Master Baggins said: It's all right. Isn't it?”

Next thing Bilbo felt was a hand a mite too heavy for a rogue falling upon his shoulders, and a fiery glare that bore him to the very core.

“Master Baggins,” Nori said. “I shall hold you responsible if anything happens to my brother. I shall _hunt_ you down and the rest of your extended family; mark my word!”

What could Bilbo have done but smile and accept the challenge? “Your word is marked,” he said, “just as my word you shall have.”

There would be a day Bilbo should be able to look at the world and cry, “ _It's all right! Why? Because I am here!_ ” and actually back it up with power of his own.

It wasn't today, certainly, but hobbits were, as a rule, dreamers.

***

“This way, hurry!”

Izuku did not ponder long what come over him.

It was not a hero's origin story, but primal instinct for survival. When everything about you was burning down; fire was raining down indiscriminately, debris thrown all over the place, and air-raid siren blared, of the likes the country had not seen for nearly a century now... you would look for the nearest place that looked halfway like a shelter.

That nearest place was, of course, the main school building.

The trio got through the gate just as the famous U.A. Barrier was triggered: a wall of solid steel rose behind them and locked in place, as if telling the attackers,  _you shall not pass_ .

Explosions and flashed of flame roared behind them.

The building was nearly empty now: most of the students had thankfully gone home except the three of them, and so were most of the teachers – except probably because of the other attacks all over the city.

“Classroom,” said Izuku, and begin dashing up the stairwell. Time seemed to have stood still but for the rapid footsteps behind him and Hatsume's surprisingly distressed “Midoriya, wait!”

Their first destination, of course, was the 1-A classroom. The gigantic sliding door was bolted shut: neither Izuku nor Uraraka's keycards were working.

“Support classroom?” exclaimed Hatsume. “They never lock the place since... well, since some of us tend to hang around after class a lot-”

By which, Izuku realized, Hatsume meant herself. “That way then!” he said. The explosions outside were drowning out his voice.

The hallway and stairway quaked as blasts resounded about them. The Support classrooms were one, devoid of people, and two, incredibly cluttered. But the room was large, and there was a clear view of the outside beyond the windows. With his heart thumping still, Izuku ran towards the nearest window, kept his profile low, and peeked out.

“They're not attacking the main school building?”

“'Course they can't!” said “Look, look! The barrier's working as designed!”

Indeed, the U.A. Barrier was not for show: sixteen feet of steel and concrete fifty feet tall towered over the villains, bristling with automatic turrets spitting rubber rounds, jets of pressurized water and tear gas missiles with remarkable speed at the assailants both above and below.

On their parts the villains were pouring everything they had into the barrier. Not that there were many of them to begin with: the attackers numbered only a half dozen. Two were flying; one on a pair of bird--like wings, the other by gusts of jet-wind that periodically blasted from his feet and left hand.

Bird-wing was carrying many tiny balls as large as oranges, slugging them two at a time at the wall. Wherever it hit, the air itself vanished, and the resulting implosions was so forceful they dented iron and cracked concrete. Jump-jet had a very mundane grenade-launcher in his free hand, that he toted around like a long pistol. His tap-dancing in the air was punctuated by a chorus of grenade explosions about and along the wall.

On the ground, Izuku spied a villain doing nothing but materializing the air-destroying balls – a short and stout fellow he was, and resembled Mineta in many ways, wearing nothing but dirty torn jeans and a bandana on his forehead. Another was projecting a wall of dust and sand in front of the last two – which did a surprisingly good job blocking off the barrier's automated turret fire. The latter was clad from top to toe in what looked like scales and plated mail over quilt – like one of those mannequins in the Middle East section of a history museum.

“Flying quirk and artillery quirk?” said Hatsume.

“Air manipulation, probably,” corrected Izuku. Excellent coordination, if he was to add something himself.

The most physically intimidating of the lot was standing behind every other co-conspirator. He was inhumanly huge and muscular, so large he could probably crush a man's head with one hand. If not for the hood of muscle over his head, he would have been truly frightening. As it is, the villain just looked... ridiculous, like a clown with mismatched outfits trying to parade his most throaty evil laugh.

Then there was the last villain in the group: an old man wearing drab grey roadwork outfit with an equally weathered yellow helmet. He was so normal, so unextraordinary, so unthreatening he'd sunken into the background for all the while. Indeed he seemed to be doing nothing at all and was just there for the show.

That was until his eyes suddenly snapped open: unsettling golden eyes that glinted in the sunset. “IT IS TIME! IT IS TIME!” he cried with a raspy, cruel breath.

“Let it rip, oldie!” cried the muscular villain.

With a bout of crazed laugh, the old man tore himself from behind the safety of the sandstorm. He charged forward, straight into the turrets' no-man's-land.

The first volley of automatic fire had barely touched the villain when he flashed like a miniature sun.

“MY LIFE TO END THIS SCHOOL!” His voice was like the howling of a rabid animal.

Realization hit Izuku like a truck. “Everyone, away from the window!” he cried.

The next thing Izuku knew was an absolutely enormous explosion.

At once his ears rang with shattering glass, cracking plaster, splintering and furniture blown away. The blast was so great the entire school compound rumbled. It was all Izuku could do to shut his eyes and crossed his arm over his face, push Hatsume behind him and braced for any impact from the furniture.

No such impact came.

Izuku opened his eyes to find Uraraka holding off two tables that might well have slammed into them both, teeth gritting.

“T-thank me later!” she exclaimed. “ _Release_!” The heavy-set table and chair fell harmlessly on the ground.

No sooner had Izuku staggered up than he saw a flash of red on Uraraka's right arm. A thin stream of red was trickling through the fabric of her torn uniform, and dripped, dripped, dripped on the ground.

“You're bleeding, Uraraka!”

“Y-yeah, glass shards,” she said, her shoulder shuddering. “C-couldn't avoid it so well.” She leaned against the wall and started panting hard. Her face was losing color _very_ quickly.

“L-let me have a look,” said Izuku. He lifted Uraraka's hand and looked at her arm: a piece of glass shard had sliced it open, tearing through her sleeve and leaving a cut as long as an outstretched palm. “Does it hurt a lot?”

Uraraka nodded. “I... I'll be alright, I thi-think,” she said.

Her face was flushing red. “Midoriya-” She looked away from Izuku. “Y-yeah, I guess-”

“Hold on,” Izuku said. With an unhesitant _rip_ , he tore open Uraraka's sleeve. It was hard to concentrate, partly because the gash was so deep and so bloody, and partly because, well, he was holding a girl's bare arm, medical purposes or otherwise.

_What would Bilbo do?_

The answer was obvious. Bilbo would tell him, _silly fauntling_ , and make him focus on the task at hand, for what kind of uncultured and uncivilized hobbit wouldn't know how to dress a wound?

So Izuku drew a very deep breath, and began cannibalizing Uraraka's sleeve into a makeshift dressing of sort: a patch over the gash to stem the bleeding, then the rest wrapped tightly around her calf. _One knot... two knot... three..._

Izuku could almost _feel_ how Uraraka must be hyperventilating from the way she breathed on his head.

_I have to focus._

Izuku finished the second-to-last knot and took a quick breath.

“Where did you learn that?” Uraraka sounded duly amazed – and curious. Curiosity wasn't good – and this wasn't the time at any rate.

“ _Somewhere_ ,” Izuku answered, and tied the last knot tight above her calf, at once finishing the dressing and pre-empting any further question. “Don't move too much now.”

And not a moment too soon. “Uh... guys?” exclaimed Hatsume very softly. “L-look!”

The trio peered down through the shattered glass window.

Now that the smoke and dust had all but settle, the view below was clear to all, and it was not pretty. To call it _complete devastation_ was an understatement.

Of the suicide attacker there was nothing left, nor was there much of that wall section either. A large chunk of the famed U.A. Barrier was _gone_ , leaving behind a crater the size of a small city block. The rest of the barrier reeled in at the impact. Angry cracks ran along the length of the barrier; the concrete crumbling as they watched. All the front-facing turrets stopped firing, all self-repair functions ceased, all defensive projections offline.

The school was wide open to the unwanted visitor.

The three villains strolled through the enormous hole almost casually.

“Ya'll be missed, old-timer!” cried the villain with the fold of flesh like a hood over his head, putting on a two-finger salute. “League of Villain Crack Suicide Squad, forward! There won't be anyone to stop us this time!”

“Is-is that a... a self-destruction quirk?” Uraraka finally said. “Did he just-” She swallowed hard, taking the word with her gulp.

“S-seems like it,” said Hatsume, with shaking voice and bewildered eyes.

Meanwhile, Izuku was biting back a growl.

When the initial fear had faded, in its place there was anger.

They dared  _come_ here?

They dared vandalize his school?

They dared threaten the symbol of everything the hero society was meant to nurture?

They dared hurt  _his friends_ ?

But a honorary hobbit, however enraged, was still a honorary hobbit and therefore cautious by nature. Make that honorary hobbit Midoriya Izuku, and the cautious factor would become an order of magnitude greater.

And then all of a sudden something stirred from beneath the workbench on the far side of the room. Izuku spun around just in time to catch a head full of purple balls wriggling out.

“Mineta?” exclaimed Izuku. “What are you doing here?”

Izuku looked at the two girls, then at the resident, well, 'unsavory element'. Hatsume was shrugging. Uraraka's eyebrows were twitching.

“I, er-” Mineta looked about the room sheepishly. “I got kind of held up after class, and-”

The problem with Mineta Minoru was, even if he was truthful about having no lewd purpose or intention in mind, nobody would believe him. If it hadn't been an emergency, Izuku wouldn't be surprised if they would have some choice words on Mineta's _getting held up_ under a table after school.

But there was a time and a place for everything, and for chastising a potential ally this was not. “Never mind that,” he said. “Would you help us, Mineta? We'll need a plan and-”

A very loud ' _Eep!_ ' left Mineta's quivering lips. “Plan? _Plan_? Midoriya, have you gone crazy too?” he yelled. “Y-you don't intend to _fight_ them are you?”

“We can do something to help out – not necessarily fighting,” Izuku said. “They _don't know_ there are students left in the building.” 

“You sure about that?” said Uraraka.

“They're not afraid to show off their quirks,” said Izuku. “If they had known we're around and watching, wouldn't you think they'd be more cautious? After all, we're  _U.A._ students.” 

“In t-that case, s-shouldn't we k-k-keep quiet?” exclaimed Mineta, his attempt to lower his voice instead make him squeakier than ever. “I-if we d-don't do anything t-they'll go away, right?”

“As likely as not,” Izuku said. “If they're just here to vandalize, then sure. But then if that's all they want, why throw away their own lives?”

“Not like there's a shortage of crazy people nowadays!” Mineta cried. “L-like you've got a r-really strong quirk, see, and you thought hey I could just go round and wreck things because it's f-fun!”

“We're _in this together_ , Mineta,” said Izuku. “Look, I'm not suggesting we jump out there and try to get the drop on them or anything. I'll just keep an eye out, see? And if an opportunity presents itself-”

He looked out of the window. Indeed, the villains were strolling around like they owned the place: the hood-headed muscular was puffing his chest as he went about trashing every single tree as he walked towards the main building. Sandstorm was putting his right hand on the scimitar on his belt while wind raged about him. Grenade-maker was tossing his balls randomly everywhere. The two fliers had landed, too – like they were looking forward to  _walking_ through the school's hall with their own two feet. 

At least, that seemed the intention – until the winged villain lost his left wing.

Literally.

A scream burst off from the villain's place; he went tumbling on the ground, his wing limped now and covered in blood. From the top of the ruined wall descended a figure clad in typical ninja gear, complete with a face-mask.

“Crack suicide squad?” he said. “Perhaps you are truly suicidal, attacking U.A. itself.”

A loud _Ooh_ filled the classroom. “Is that-”

“Edgeshot,” said Izuku, and his grin could not have been broader. “The fifth-ranked hero out there! The ninja who can draw his limbs out into razor-sharp edges – classic and classy!”

Now the muscle-hooded villain took one step back. He muttered something to the villains around him. Then he put one foot forward – one foot that Izuku could see trembling even from the fifth floor.

“Well, well, w-well,” he shouted, his voice cracking. “The famous Edgeshot, eh? What a real honor! H-how about we have a mano-a-mano l-like real men?”

“Hmph,” was the only verbal answer he was given. Edgeshot's finger shot forth like a flechette, and sliced past the giant villain's fleshy hood. Izuku saw a dash of blood spurting, followed by a very high-pitched yelp.

“Give yourself up and you shall not be hurt,” he said.

At that exact moment, a veritable cloud of thick black fog materialized some fifty feet above Edgeshot. The air whistled, followed by a primal _howl_.

“What the-”

A  _very_ heavy fist fell on Edgeshot's head. Down from the swirling blackness above it fell like an anvil. It barely missed Edgeshot and his the ground instead: the concrete shattered beneath his knuckle.

The fist belonged to a monster. There was no other way to describe it: a creature whose skin was blue, whose muscles were bulging, whose brain was exposed through a lobotomized skull, whose mouth resembled a beak-like contraption glued to the rest of its face. Expressionless, emotionless, speechless... a war machine given flesh.

“What the hell is t-t-that thing?”

Indeed Mineta was speaking for the lot of them right there.

Now the mass of dark mist was swirling in the air, as if rumbling in its own laughter. A pair of disembodied eyes emerged in its midst, looking down at – and on – all those beneath it.

“Oh, if it isn't Edgeshot, the Fantastic Four knockoff!” said the voice. “I've heard of you plenty. Can't say you aren't on the hit list – so very sorry for that.” The eyes began blinking. “This is a weapon designed to get rid of  _the_ top hero out there! I suppose destroying the fifth Hero would work quite as good.”

“Don't give yourself too much credit,” said Edgeshot, dusting his suit. He leaped into the air in a bound. His arms flattened into thin whip-blades, and shot towards the monster's body.

The sharp edges pierced through both sides of the monster's chest.

The creature didn't even flinch.

Edgeshot's fingers were stuck inside its body.

The creatured gripped Edgeshot's blade-fingers in one hand and ripped them off its chest. It must have cut him to the bones, and it didn't even _care_. It leaned back, and with a great heave tossed Edgeshot at the wall. Had it been anyone else, the fight could have well ended. But it was Edgeshot: the ninja flattened himself into a sheet on impact, and reformed into shape in a blink of an eye.

Just in time, too: the monster did not let such _minor_ injuries inconvenience itself, and launched its thousand-pound weight at Edgeshot like a solid cannonball.

Izuku stared at the monster. Minor injuries? More like 'what injuries?': the holes in its chest had completely healed, and if there had been a cut in its hand, the wound was no more. _A regeneration quirk? No... a regeneration quirk_ on top of _extreme strength and speed?_

“What's good for All Might must be good for those lesser heroes, I suppose?” taunted the swirling mass of fog in the sky as the eyes turned on the clueless villains in the schoolyard. “Now, ladies and gentlemen? I have other businesses to handle. Take good care of the situation here, will you?”

The muscle-hood villain stepped forward. “H-hey, Kurogiri, my dear chap?” he cried. “A-aren't you taking us back?”

“I could do that, certainly,” he said. “But don't you want a share in the glory?” The disembodied eyes threw a glance at the school building. “Might still be some rats left in there, and if not, plenty of things to smash. The joy of victory's all yours. You know the drill – human siege engine, wreck their buildings before they return, that sort of thing.”

Then the fog swirled and dissipated, bringing the eyes with it.

“Good hunting... _partners_.”

***

It would have taken Halbarad no time at all to bear news to the dwarves' main party. This, however, was not what he did.

Instead he was weaving his path through the less-travelled passes, where Rangers would map and mark but rarely used. On his person was a letter, arriving by pigeon just before sundown, that read “ _Our forces have camped for the night at the mountain valley._ ” The words that went unwritten were, “ _I await your report_ ”.

The timing couldn't have been more right.

His fleet feet swept over the rocky trail while the wind howled about his ears. He was between the goblins and the dwarves now, never an easy thing for an elf-friend of their days and age. Being a Ranger – no, being a Dunadan born long after the failings of his people, had never meant an easy path.

Soon he had found himself through a small rocky defile, beyond which a small rocky valley stood; and at once Halbarad felt his spirit lifted. For there were Elven warsongs in the air, hummed and sung by many voices high and ancient, that grew taller and clearer the closer he drew to the valley.

Behind the defile stood a relatively vast opening, where wind and snow throughout the years had widened the mountain pass into a long valley. Now the warsongs grew loud and more mesmerizing, for there camped the army Lord Elrond had promised, and the Master of the Last Homely House was nothing if not an oathkeeper.

Halbarad was standing before a suitably large campsite of a small army of the Eldar and those Dunedain donning mail and wielding swords of old.

There were a few dozen tents pitched for the night and a few supply wagons, and scores of Noldorin wardens bearing bows and swords about the tents. The site was fenced with portable pickets – nothing extremely fancy – and not a banner was flying in the air. There were lookouts who have climbed up the valley sides, keen-eyed and vigilant. In all there were a dozen and a hundred swords and bows, both elven and of his own kin.

It was not a large army, not compared to the military might of the Woodland Realms East of the Misty Mountains, and certainly not to the days of the High Kings Gil-Galad and Fingolfin long before Halbarad's time. But it was an _army_ , and therefore naturally far better equipped to deal with the goblin fortress than a company of thirteen dwarves.

At the entrance stood two of the Eldar knights of ancient noble lineages, clad in equally ancient silver mail, who hailed him with a wave of their hands.

“Lord Glorfindel is waiting,” one of them said, and thumbed towards the great wood-fire at the centre of the camp.

Halbarad walked through the entrance and nodded at the warriors he knew – which was to say nearly every single one of them – and made his way towards the large fireplace in the center. There, sitting on a large rock was Lord Glorfindel, golden-haired and clad in his glorious silver mail. He was staring intently at the flame, as if divining the future from the shape and form of the smoke, and only turned about when Halbarad was within a few steps of him.

“Halbarad, my dear friend,” he said.

“It's good to see you keeping good time, my lord,” he said. “The Mountains has been treating us well, I suppose?”

“As well as usual,” said the elf-lord. “Between sundown yesterday and now we've engaged a dozen goblin patrols. None of them shall be reporting back to their holes.”

“Have the dwarves known of your arrival?”

“They yet know,” said Glorfindel, “and though I understand the reason this is hardly the way I would have conducted this business. They are meant to be our friends; we should have in better days marched alongside them, not trailing after them and keeping our banners hidden.” He stood up. “But anyway, my dear Halbarad, I would welcome a report. How fare the dwarves and the goblins?”

“It is exactly as Lord Elrond has feared,” said Halbarad. “The goblins have fortified the mountain. A new bulwark now blocks the High Pass beyond the dwarves' ability to siege it.”

The scowl grew more and more severe on Glorfindel's face with every of Halbarad's description. Even with this army, besieging a goblin stronghold might still be problematic – and there would be blood and tears no doubt.

“Anything else you have learnt?” asked Glorfindel. “Knowing goblins, there must be another way in _somewhere._ ”

“I haven't looked,” said Halbarad. “The dwarves and Master Baggins are still there waiting for us, and we should make haste lest-”

Halbarad never got to finish. At once an elven warden swept towards the fire. “We have company, my lord,” he loudly announced. “It's the dwarves.”

“The dwarves?” said Lord Glorfindel amusedly. “About time, isn't it?”

Then he straightened his cape and briskly walked towards the camp's entrance – not before gesturing Halbarad to follow.

There at the camp's entrance stood the rest of the dwarves, all ten of them. Thorin Oakenshield was standing at the fore, flanked by his two nephews, eyes blazing and lips curling. Mithrandir was standing a little behind, beard tucked neatly into his silver belt.

No sooner had Thorin's eyes met Halbarad's than he marched forward, aggression writ in his pose. “Explain yourself, Ranger!” he demanded. “What does this elven army here?”

“Impressive, Master Thorin Oakenshield,” said Lord Glorfindel. “How did you know about us?”

“Do not underestimate the line of Durin!” he shouted.

Glorfindel threw a glance at the wizard behind the dwarves. “Age has done nothing but add to your excellent sense of direction I see, Mithrandir,” he said. “You could make a good Ranger in a pinch!”

“Do excuse me,” said the wizard. “The dwarves _implored_ me to lead them to you – though it seems they are well able to find your host with or without my guidance!”

“Well, but of course!” said Kili matter-of-factly. “We saw you dispatching pigeons, Master Halbarad.”

“And when we had half a head about us, it really isn't hard to find an army of elves,” said Fili. “Your folk are quite a bit less discreet than you think you are.”

Halbarad felt like punching himself. Of course he should have known: underestimating Thorin Oakenshield or his nephews might have seemed excusable given how obstinate the dwarf was, but it was still enormously presumptive – and careless!

Glorfindel glanced at the three Durins. The look on his face was more... amusement, so to speak, than any sort of anger or annoyance. “Are we truly?” he said. “We do intend to show ourselves at some point, after all – presumably before your Company leaves the Misty Mountains.”

“Then why skulk in the shadow like thieves in the night?” said Thorin. “Is this how the _High Elves_ of old are wont to behave?”

“A very good question, Master Thorin Oakenshield,” said Glorfindel. “Had we outright given you an army, which my lord Elrond would have gladly, would you have taken it?”

“I would not, and I need not!' cried Thorin. “This is a quest meant for dwarves!”

“And this is a war meant for more than dwarves,” said Gandalf. “Can't you see, Thorin Oakenshield? It is not everyday that goblins fortify the High Pass and giants vanish from plain sight!'

“Is it now?” said Thorin. “Fascinating, certainly, yet it is still _our_ very _home_ we are fighting for! A home that elves have no business gallivanting about and around!”

“And what shall you do about it?” The wizard straightened his back, now standing tall and imposing. “Last time I looked, Thorin Oakenshield, you had no army with which to disperse the elves here even if they had come in poor faith and small kindness – which they haven't.”

“I don't, cursed be this damnable predicament,” said Thorin. “Doesn't mean I have to _welcome_ them.”

“You don't _have_ to. All the same it is poor form _not_ to,” said Gandalf. “It is by my words that Lord Elrond agreed to lend you his forces – forces which, let me remind you, he would have quite needed at his side to safeguard his own home! The least you can do is to accept what help he has granted with grace and poise, as your father and grandfather no doubt would have as King beneath the Mountain.” There was a dash of amusement in his voice. “And before you object, my dear Master Thorin, this isn't even your Mountain. The elves aren't trespassing upon any domain you can call _yours_.”

“We don't need an army,” said Thorin coldly.

“With all due respect, you _do_ , my lord, and sooner than you would have liked,” said Halbarad. “I bring news from the scouting team – ill tiding at any rate.”

Then without letting the dwarf have a single word in, Halbarad began telling him everything he knew. The story of the goblin redoubt did not shake the dwarf-lord as much as Halbarad had expected it to, nor did the idea of having to siege, tunnel below, fly above, or anyhow bypass such a fortress. His face remained hard, though his gaze was directed at the ground now, silent and thoughtful. But there was no fear in that face of his: his teeth was gritted, yes, but that was the extent of his response.

_So this is what Thorin Oakenshield is like in the face of adversity. His fame is not undeserved._

For long the dwarf's face betrayed no emotion whatsoever. When he _did_ begin speaking again, his voice was very measured – very careful. “Assume you tell the truth, Ranger,” he finally said, “there are ways we could have surmounted it without resorting to the help of elves.”

“Like _what_ , pray tell me?” said Gandalf. “By Eru, there is a time for pride and this is not it, Thorin!”

“Again, surmounting a single fortress is not important,” said Halbarad. “What is important, my lord, is that we are facing an enemy who is rested, prepared, most likely to be expecting us, fighting on their own land. There are many ways to be a dwarven hero, sir, but throwing yourself against a wall is not one of them.”

Gandalf poised himself against his walking staff. “And it isn't that you have no help, my dear good sir! You are in the company of friends – all you need to do is say the word.”

A long, long while passed in relative silence as the dwarf considered his option. Finally his short beard began to tremble, in fear or anger or resignation Halbarad was unable to tell at once.

“By Mahal and my ancestors,” he said, “has it truly come to a time we have to rely on the kindness of elves?” His tone was not at all inflammatory now, only resigned.

“Elves who have told, nay, _implored_ you to accept said kindness in good faith.” said Gandalf, and added. “More than once.”

Halbarad could but nod in silent agreement. The cause of dwarves had ever been tragic – though no small part due to their own making. _What shall you do now, Thorin Oakenshield?_

“Very well, you win this time, _Tharkun_ , and all of your machinations. Tell me what you know, and I shall do what I must, as Prince Beneath the Mountain.”

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes and Fanon:
> 
> \- And with this the action commences for real. I've written and rewritten this chapter several times, changing direction each time. I'm still not 100% content with how this chapter turned out - if only because I wanted to do so much more with it. Then again, a 10k+ chapter is probably not a very good idea pacing-wise; hence the chapter has been split in two, the first of which is right here for your perusal.  
> \- The entire USJ arc is, as you can see, completely different from canon now. As the previous chapter has hinted, there are several 'theaters' to the action, with the villains taking a far more active role in hitting the heroes where it hurts now. To this end I've had to improvise several villain OCs, and will strive to keep their roles relatively minor.   
> \- Considering that Trapezius Headgear is pretty much a lesser Muscular, I decided to give him an expanded role compared to his canon "1-shot-by-All-Might fodder". It is only appropriate, therefore, that he be given his own gang and become Small Might's Babby's First Villain.  
> \- The games that Sensei might have force-fed Shigaraki to get him used to strategic/tactical thinking includes, among others, Fire Emblem, Starcraft and Mount and Blade.  
> \- I've thought over and over again whether to include Mineta in the chapter. On one hand, he's the guy nobody likes, in- and out-of-universe. On the other, in canon he serves as a very effective 'foil' to Izuku during the USJ arc, providing both comic relief and a very relatabble real-life teenager's reaction to genuinely life-threatening situations. In the end, I thought he could still fulfill that role in my version, and there he is.  
> \- I've taken more than a few liberties with Ori's (film) characterization, plus some extrapolation of my own.


	21. Musubi

**CHAPTER 20**

_**MUSUBI** _

 

When the blue-skinned, brain-exposed monstrosity as large as two All Mights put together piledrove on Edgeshot's head, Mei's reaction was not unlike any reasonable, scientifically trained, rational teenager without a death wish: Reeling back and scream inside,  _What the hell has just happened?_ and  _What the hell is that thing?_

Underneath the windows, Edgeshot had extricated himself from the hulking monstrosity. He was still very much in the fight, but the cocky, all-confident look had vanished altogether. He was circling the beast, watching, not acting. He did shoot part of himself at the monster several time, but only to bait, not to attack. 

It was almost a good thing he  _didn't_ know Mei and all her friends were stuck in the building. If he had, he might not have had the patience to study the beast as thoroughly as he was trying. The realization throttled her breath... until Midoriya put his finger to his chin and began mumbling

“Edgeshot's quirk has everything to do with stopping power,” Midoriya mumbled. “Of course he isn't going to fare very well against an enemy who regenerates... but if he can strike his vitals then maybe he could stop him... it isn't like that villain can hurt him as well; he can just turn into a sheet and dissipate all impact-” 

Mineta waved his arms wildly. “M-M-M-Midoriya? T-the villains are inside!” he cried. “What're we gonna do? What're we-”

The chant would have gone on forever if not for a very sharp pinch on his shoulder. _Subtle, Uraraka._

For his part Midoriya just narrowed his eyes. He was strangely... relaxed.

“They are... and that doesn't matter much,” he said. “Now they might know the layout of the building, or they may not. If they do, they'd immediately beeline for the more vulnerable assets – computer rooms, equipment stores, security robot cabinets... that sort of things. If they don't, they'd wander around the place doing wanton damage.” His gaze swept across their little group of refugees. “Either way the classrooms are likely the last place they would come knocking.” 

Mineta gulped. “Y-you mean we'll be safe here?”

Midoriya nodded forcefully. “For a time, yes,” he said. “In fact we could be completely safe if we lie low and do nothing... if the pros arrive on time.”

“If?” asked Uraraka.

Midoriya's fingers glided across his smartphone screen. The map of Greater Tokyo on the screen was showing a distressingly large number of red dots.

“It doesn't matter if each villain attack is individually small,” he said. “This many attacks at the same time is going to strain emergency response to the point we might have to wait for _hours_ before heroes other than Edgeshot arrives.” He threw a sideways glance at the window's direction. “More if the authorities assume he could handle everything here alone.” _Which he probably can't_ , went unsaid.

“Are you s-seriously suggesting,” squeaked Mineta, “we _fight_ them?”

“No,” said Midoriya. “That would be reckless... and illegal. Doesn't mean we can't _accidentally_ leave certain dangerous material lying where unfortunate passers-by can step on...”

Midoriya's freckled face was dead serious as per normal, but Mei was wondering if he _wasn't_ holding down a mild chuckle or two beneath the surface.

And then he inched closer to Mei. “Let's say, Hatsume?” he said “You said you've tried to make something out of Ms. Midnight's sleeping gas, right?” He scratched his head. “Do you still have any left?”

It wasn't until _then_ that a hidden switch in her head went _flick_. A screen of fog evaporated before Mei's eyes. They said fear had a way of shutting down rational thoughts. Mei wouldn't like to make excuses for herself: the fact was that the better part of her brain had _shut down_ over the last ten minutes and that was a mark of _shame_.

Being reminded by a layman of your own babies was unacceptable! An inventor wasn't supposed to crack, natch! Always sharp and astute, always ready to come up with new ideas... and new babies!

Besides, this was her home turf. This was where all her babies were. This was where people like their teachers and the pro heroes out there would fight and defend so that people like _her_ could keep creating and making and improving. This was where she _had_ to take some kind of a stand: She could do this – for the hero society that made her life's dream not only possible but within reach!

One solid breath, then two, then three. Keeping calm under fire was easier after the first gasp.

Then she pulled herself up, dusted her uniform, and gave the firmest nod she could muster. “Of _course_ I do, silly Midoriya!” she exclaimed. “And there's more where it comes from!”

She forced a very bright smile – All Might had scientifically proven that smiles dispelled immediate fear – and dove towards the pile of her brainchilds.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said. “Say hello to my nursery of cute babies!”

A few explosions and a dollop of broken glass had not done them much harm. Or any at all: they were Mei's _babies_ and that meant built to last unless they exploded themselves. And were there many to choose from: Guns, spiny yo-yos, pieces and bits of unfinished powered armor, fists powered by hydraulic pistons, and at least two prototypes for Piyocchan's successors. Near the top of the pile there was the baby she owed Midoriya: his new sling-gauntlet, complete with a new ridge-pipe loaded with a new, experimental sort of ammo.

“Got a few... experimental pressure-plate triggered devices there somewhere if someone wants to try recreating the Temple of Doom,” she said with a wink. “But first thing first: Midoriya, catch!”

She picked up the new and improved sling-gauntlet – that she had been working on before the embarrassing incident in the morning – and tossed it at Midoriya's general direction.

“You wanted to fight, don't you?” she cried. “You heard the good doc! No fighting, quirk-using, body-straining without the proper support!”

Mineta's grape-tuft were shaking. “A-are you insane, Hatsume?” he cried. “D-don't encourage the madman to pick a fight!”

“Shush, you,” she said. “We inventors wear _insanity_ like a badge of honor.”

Midoriya shook his head too. “Of course not,” he said. “Like I said, let's leave mildly irritating material of adhesive or anaesthetic qualities around, and if they walk into it...” He coughed. “Their fault in the first place, right?”

“Okay, everyone, let's get started!” said Midoriya. “Hatsume, sort out anything you have that can trap up this floor! Uraraka, lend her a hand if you will? And Mineta...” There, his face went mischievous again! “Let's go find some strategic locations to hide your balls!”

The plan was a solid one.

Except it never got to start.

No sooner had Mei walked off with a spring in her step than t he door into the classroom burst open, torn from its hinge by a sandy gust. 

Behind the dust screen came heavy footsteps. A gasp choked in Mei's throat. At the doorway stood the armored figure controlling the sandstorm at the gate. It was an archaic coat of scale that hung all the way to her ankle, complete with a veiled war-mask that covered her face but for her eyes. 

“The wind of changes is coming; I feel it in the sand beneath my feet,” she said. “My name is Windswept Azadan. And you-” She took another step into the room. “No need to tell me your name, shrimps. You and I, we're the same thing: sacrifices for a better tomorrow. Except they're going tor remember our names and not yours”

Her voice was inhuman, for lack of better words: no emotion except for a hatred that, logically, had no business being there at all. 

For his part Mineta was screaming. For once, perhaps Class 1-A's resident pervert was right to do what he did.

***

Bilbo Baggins was staring at the mouth of the cavern before him with much disbelief and trepidation. And Ori was so, so proud of himself.

“How did you know there would be an entrance here?” asked Bilbo.

The search for an entrance along the mountainside was far less arduous and time-consuming than Master Baggins probably expected. Hardly half an hour had passed when Ori gestured him towards a broad opening in the rock. At first sight, it was not exactly conspicuous: the mouth of the cavern was large enough for maybe two to walk abreast, and there were neither track nor tread leading to or from it.

To say Ori was ecstatic would be a criminal understatement.

“You know what they say, Mister Baggins,” he said. “We dwarves are made from stone carved by Mahal's hands; from Durin the Deathless onwards. It goes without saying our forefather would have kinship with the rock of the earth, and the greatest of our ancestors could know whether a vein of rock would lead to gold or gems or iron just by touching it.” He rapped his thick finger on the solid wall. “Most of us have that sense about us still, even in these days when our kind has been... well, diminished.”

“Can you truly sense, well, the way just by touching the rock?” asked Bilbo, and Ori could  _hear_ the incredulity in his tongue. Not that he would take offense at the good hobbit. He wasn't a dwarf. 

“Well... not quite, no,” he said sheepishly. “They say reading stone is like reading a person. You can see their look, and maybe the drift they're getting at if you are of a clever and inquisitive sort, but their depth you shall never truly know. Same for stone. We know where a cave might be, and sometimes whether it may more likely lead to good or ill things if we have enough of a feel for it; but rarely shall we ever look at any opening in the earth and tell at once  _what_ lies at the bottom.”

Ori placed his ear on the rock. And sure enough, down, down, perhaps as far as a hundred yards vertically, there was the splashing and sploshing of liquid, echoing upwards through the veins of rock.

“Nevertheless, I can hear water echoing from the rock, see?” he said gleefully. “Water that has things living about it other than goblins and orcs; though whether this means ill or well I can only assume – incorrectly.”

“It  _is_ water we are looking for, I believe,” said Bilbo, patting on the many empty water-skins for emphasis. “Now, on to the task at hand...”

Ori nodded, and off they went into the unknown.

The cave soon opened into a very massive network of criss-crossing tunnels, both natural and dug-out (presumably by goblin hands, or perhaps those unfortunate enthralled by their whip and wickedness). There were many forks in the first tunnel alone, leading east and west and north and south and down.

It was exquisitely spectacular. Goblins might not be good for much, as most dwarves would rightly admit, but their eyes for good caves were second only to dwarves. What a waste of perfectly dwellable and delvable caverns, that.

Now Ori could hardly keep up with the mapping, furiously scribbling on the pages as he was. Excitement filled him, and at once he could not think of any evil thing that would befall them. Well, perhaps he did, but he dismissed his worries as naysaying. Why spend time being afraid of goblins hiding in the dark, when he had _Master Bilbo Baggins_ with him?

“You keep your eyes on the track, my good sir,” he said, “and I'll jot it down! No sweat at all, Mister Baggins!”

The good Master Baggins' reply was something of a cross between a chuckle and a groan.

***

Izuku had thought up, in the span of five minutes, about a dozen scenarios as to how they could trap, incapacitate, neutralize, or otherwise wall off at least some of the villains while keeping themselves safe and hidden.

Exactly _none_ of which had involved the villains finding them first.

“H-how did... how did you know we're here?”

The villainess folded her arms. “Because _someone_ 's been making more noises than a swineherd at a slaughterhouse,” she said. “Which makes sense... you _are_ like a swineherd at a slaughterhouse. Ours.”

Izuku gritted his teeth. “What if we don't intend to be your... sacrifices?”

More footsteps echoed from outside. “Well, too bad, m'boy.” 

Into the room walked another villain: it was the muscular villain with a flesh cape for a headgear, wearing punkish armor on his torso and a sneer on his face. Now that he had a closer look, Izuku was sure he'd known the name. 

“Y-you are Trapezius Headgear the bank-robber and hostage-taker!” he cried. “Never to commit a crime without taking hostages and endangering innocent!”

“Why, am I famous!” Trapezius Headgear performed a bow in complete mockery. “What can I say? 'Tis an unfair world, you see, with the heroes and the law being so overwhelming and overbearing. Gotta level the playing field a bit, don'tcha agree?”

“What do you want with U.A.?” cried Izuku. “Why target a school?”

“You heard the old man,” she said, walking in a half-circle around them. “This society is an aberration, and this school in the middle of it. The brave fellow isn't the only one who'd give up his life to see it crumble.”

“And I get well-paid for the business,” said Trapezius Headgear. “Just business, kids, but the clients wanted some destruction and bloodshed. Too bad for you.”

_Bloodshed? They want to_ kill  _us?_

Izuku shook off the immediate fear. This was no time to be _afraid_ , especially if they wanted to _survive_ this ordeal!

 _Click_ went his head. “You can't seriously think to destroy U.A.!” he exclaimed. “Because you can't! In half an hours the pros shall come back and-”

Trapezius Headgear howled. “Relax, relax, don'tcha waste your precious neurons for us,” he said. “We're too small a team to wreck this pretty place.” His fingers were playing with the thick iron chain on his neck. “Doesn't mean we can't do some... shall we say, permanent damage? How could the hero society call itself 'heroic' when it couldn't even save a bunch of students in peril?”

“Like we'll let you!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, we've got a badass over here!” The villain clapped his hands. “Guess what, we ain't got no time for good-for-nothing hero-trainees. Azadan, my dear girl? Smoke the idiot. Gotta ransack the place for stuff worth more than a couple of whiny kids-”

“You aren't taking care of them personally, _sir_?”

Trapezius Headgear made a mock-surprise face. “And what, get saddled with a child-killing charge? Oh no no no, that's for you gal. Not like you have anything better to do in your life than throwing it away for the cause!”

That meshed war-mask might have been made for protection; it was also extremely good at hiding expressions and emotions. When the villainess spoke again, it was with a business-like, matter-of-course tone.

“Understood,” she said. “Should've left school while you could, kids.”

“That's more like it,” laughed the villain like a hyena. “Now cover me while I wreck some 'bots and grab some valuables!”

“Like I'll let you!” cried Izuku. A sling bullet slid down the tubing and into his hand; Izuku leaned back and did what he do best: A spark of power, followed by an immense rip.

The solid shot hurled itself at the armored villainess... and glanced harmlessly off the curtain of sand and gravel. “Not bad at all,” she mused. “But not good enough!”

She clasped her hands. Izuku could only feel his feet being ripped off the ground. a scream choked in his throat, the sound of Trapezius Headgear laughing and running off resounding in his head. His face, covered with dust. His mouth, full of sand. _Sand... so much sand..._

His back hit the wall with a thud. Pain spread along his spine and spilled into his arms and legs. His head rang like a bell. He struggled to his feet, and half expected another blow in the face like the last one.

But at once Izuku tasted blood in his mouth, and heard no sound but Mineta's scream. His eyes saw nothing but a tornado swirling in the room. Sand and gravel was funneled through the various cracks and crevices in the wall, materializing into a raging sandstorm that edged ever closer to his friends. 

He forced his eyes open. The masked villain was marching forward now, seemingly unstoppable. The sandstorm roared and howled, throwing around furniture and debris. Mineta was hiding behind a none too sturdy table. Uraraka and Hatsume weren't doing much better: there was only so much Uraraka's table-shields could do.

_Think, Izuku, think! What use is a hero if he can't save those in front of him?_

And then his eyes, swollen and misty, caught a glimpse of the space beneath her feet. The floor beneath her feet was too pristine, like the vicious sandstorm had never swept across it.

_Could it be... she has a minimum range?_

Izuku's arm twitched, and underneath his hand he found something long, round and cold to the touch: A steel pipe, blown away from Hatsume's gadget pile. It was heavy and not very balanced, but fit so well in his hand... and felt so much like that practice club he was wielding in Rivendell.

And that much, that much, felt so much like _hope_.

_If One For All could buff up my arms so much... what about my feet?_

At once Izuku sprang up, tearing the pipe from whatever machine was holding it hostage, and brandished it like a club..

“Shield, Hatsume!”

His voice rang out without much thought behind it. In fact, had he given it some rational thought he'd have realized there was no way Hatsume could have known he meant a _literal_ shield, and even if she had, there was no way she would have something of the sort stocked in her pile.

He would have underestimated Hatsume Mei very, very sorely.

The round object hurtling towards him came not from Hatsume's hands, but Uraraka's. It arrived at Izuku's hands virtually weightless: a circular spin-disc the size of a serving tray and three times as thick, followed by a quick nod. He caught a second, approving nod from Hatsume.

_One For All... to my feet and legs. Breakthrough!_

There was no time for thoughts much more rational than that. The next tornado of sand and gravel was already coming at him specifically.

Izuku drew the hugest breath his lung could accommodate, and gave the ground a mighty, tile-shattering kick... and shot forth like a bullet.

***

In hindsight, the whole thing about running off looking for water seemed more and more like a hare-brain adventure even by the standards of the present, very hare-brained, adventure.

The wet walls and gravelly floor took Bilbo down, down, _down_. At first there was no indication whatsoever and Bilbo was going in effectively blind, guided by nothing but Ori's enthusiastic steps and his own sense of responsibility.

Then his senses sharpened; he heard water flowing in the distance and saw the blurry texture of the walls and the floor, and made out the vague shape of the cave in all its snaking twists and turns. Then his nose wrinkled on its own, for the air was thick with the stench of things unwashed and rotting alike – dank and stagnant, as was the wont of places never exposed to wind and sun and the great open.

After a while Ori's hands left his pages. He was drifting to the front, as if enthusiasm had taken all sensibilities from him, and his steps were altogether too energetic and eager. He was not scratching his graphite upon parchment any more, the adventurer long kept dormant having replaced the scholar. No, he was looking and staring and gawking and marveling at every nook and cranny, every stalactite and stalagmite, every bit of slimy moss growing out of the ordinary.

But soon even Bilbo started to take note of the changing surrounding. They were no longer in a dank entryway, but were walking on a very massive stone walkway over a chasm underneath, of which nothing could be seen but for darkness. The cavern roof was far above, with many stalagmites pointing sharply down, and patches of luminous fungi here and there. On the far side of the natural bridge there was the faint gleam of torchlight, and the stench of goblins was getting just a little more noticeable. They were just about to enter something _big_ , and the realization filled Bilbo with excitement and trepidation alike.

“Isn't that... light?” said Bilbo. “That means nothing good for a couple of burglars looking for water! We should choose another path-”

But Ori did not move. “Should we indeed?” he said as if mesmerized. “Least let me look upon it for some time – we've gotten this far, haven't we?” he exclaimed – softly. “We don't see this very often in the Blue Mountains!”

“Don't you?” asked Bilbo. “You're dwarves, aren't you?”

“Above-ground dwarves, by the time of my brothers and I,” he said. “Not a lot of wealth to be made digging in these days, not that Nori and I were any good at that business. But there's still good money to be made trading, so that's what we do. A former city guard has just the right skillset to keep a caravan safe and sound for the most part.” “I envy him sometimes. Dori gets to see all the beautiful places in the world.”

Bilbo rubbed his chest. “If you wanted to see the world so much,” he asked, “why didn't you leave?”

Ori didn't answer – not unless you would count _stop walking_ as a response of a sort. Bilbo, at any rate, did so.

“I apologize, I mean no offense,” he said.

“None taken, Master Baggins,” said Ori. “Just that... the question never truly crossed my mind. The Blue Mountains is a good place for an exiled people, you see. We have some semblance of community there. Belonging. Home. That sort of thing. Didn't treat us too badly for the most part.” He drew a deep breath, and began walking again. “Why do you think good old Dori got a taste for fine cloth and fine wine? We weren't too poor. Just... bored, for the most part, and boredom invites mischief.”

Suddenly Ori stopped. “Oh. Mahal.”

Trouble came first in the way of a commotion at the far side of the bridge. Hardly had they thought to turn around and back off when a small patrol squad of goblins descended upon them. Four in total, clad in rags and iron chest-pieces crudely wrought from tools and leather straps, holding high their curved and wicked blades.

“Goodness gracious,” said Bilbo. “Uh, I'm sorry for intruding – we're just travellers looking for some water and-”

Negotiation, obviously, wasn't going to work out. The goblins shouted and hollered in their guttural speech, and hurled themselves at the duo.

Bilbo took one step back, and calmed himself. There was no slings about him, but after those few months trying to catch up with Izuku's new fighting style, Bilbo's old hand for throwing had come back, more solid than before. He rolled on the ground, and picked out a jagged piece of rock fitting his palm, and hurled it at the first goblin. There was a great clonk: the rock hit the goblin's crude iron helmet; he staggered to the side, lost his footing and tumbled all the way down the abyss below.

The other three goblins were charging at Ori, scimitar high above their heads. Before Bilbo could act, the all too tiny dwarf had wheeled about, ducking beneath the slashes. He came behind one of the goblins, and _shunk_ went his knife through its bare back. He whisked himself around, using the poor goblin as a shield: its two comrades' blades fell on its twitching body, killing it on the spot.

That was the point Bilbo stopped watching, picked up one stone and then another. _Clonk_ and _thunk_ they went, and the two goblins fell in a heap with dents in their iron helmets.

Ori dusted his hands, wiped his knife on the goblin's corpse and sheathed it like it was nothing.

Bilbo was sure his eyes were deceiving him. “Master Ori?” he said. “How did you...”

“Just as you do all the time, Master Baggins. You can learn a whole lot of things by observing.” He lowered his voice sheepishly. “And I... had the fortune – or lack thereof – to witness my brother at _work_ in several not very prideworthy moments. Nobody expect dwarves to tumble, let's just say _._ ”

“I, uh... well, I'll not ask further then,” said Bilbo.

But short indeed was their celebration: From the other end of the walkway came a small company of goblins beyond immediate count, streaming and swarming into the walkway. Just as they were about to back off – and run back to where they came from – four goblins dropped down from the ledge above them, bearing spears and scimitars and harsh growls from the base of their throats.

Bilbo gulped. Cornered by a bunch of goblins. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen.

“W-what do we do now, Master Baggins?” said Ori, his bravery – understandably and entirely forgivably – cracking.

“Eh... well...” Bilbo would say something. Anything. But his jaw was locking, and only his legs were moving, back, back, _back_ , against the edge of the rocky bridge.

They were backing and backing and backing to the edge of the walkway. The goblins pushing forward and forward and forward, as though savouring the thrill of the hunt: their preys were cornered and squirming; why wouldn't they?

Just then Ori let off a yelp, stumbling on a rock. He almost feel over the edge, but balanced backwards just in time. The rock was less lucky, and disappeared into the darkness below... and upward echoed a deep _splash_.

“Water?”

It was the best sound that Bilbo had heard throughout their overly long night. “There's our escape!” he cried, and found enough courage to actually _smile._

Didn't even take a blink for Ori to catch the drift. “I'd try my luck with some knee-deep water,” he said, “than a forest of goblin-swords,”

“My thoughts exactly,” said Bilbo. He looked behind him, at the blackness below – then at the row of goblins in front. And then back to the abyss. “On my count, one... two... THREE!”

They fell backwards, hand-in-hand, into the blackness below.

***

The bad news was Izuku's legs were numb. His feet were strained just short of breaking point. His face was buffeted with so much sand and dirt he thought he was being buried alive. His uniform was in tatters, and the flesh beneath felt like he'd been lashed with a rawhide scourge.

But the good news: Izuku was through. His own weight behind a solid metal plate, propelled though only by a fraction of One For All, had shattered and scattered the wall of sand. His calculation was correct: The shield of sandstorm was only so effective against small projectiles without much mass behind it. A hundred and thirty pounds of himself and his shield, it couldn't stop so well. In one single move he burst through the curtain, came down on the villainess' head, and aimed a solid blow on her shoulder.

His sand-washed eyes could see a _glint_ behind the villainess' war mask: surprise, and maybe a little fear too. If not for the fact that his opponent was smart enough to pack a blade of her own, the clash would have been settled with that one swipe.

“Q-quick thinking, boy!”

There was no way she could maintain the sandstorm wall while dueling him inside her minimum range. It didn't matter either way: he caught her in a melee, and that meant the table was turned. Sure, he wasn't standing very well no more, but he could limp around still. In a duelling-mat less than three yards in diameter, maybe limping around was all he needed.

Gale and wind howled in his ears; there was a nauseating amount of sand in his mouth. His eyes were watering so much he could only catch the blurry armored shape of his opponent, and the tint of her scimitar under the sundown light through shattered windows. A villainess, armored to the teeth in plated mail, face behind a veiled war-mask, altogether taller, bulkier and better-armed than Izuku could reasonably be expected to handle.

 _Except for one little thing_ , Izuku gritted his teeth: _I've been trained by_ dwarves _._

Because a steel pipe was in essence just a mace. And fighting between mace and sword, hadn't he seen that before?

“ _Baruk... Khazad!_ ”

The words came to Izuku's chafed lips like a tongue of his own. His shield was raised high now, and the sound of the blade clanging solidly against it was the best thing he had heard in a while. More wonderful still was the dull _thud_ that followed: all his weight was behind the shield, and he knocked the villainess back, very nearly into her own sandstorm.

There was no time to wait around. Again Izuku lunged at her. She could barely raise her scimitar to block – and it was less a block and more of a

It was like fighting Gloin all over again... except his opponent couldn't hold a candle to the veteran dwarf in the dueling department. She was not too well-trained or too experienced in the business of fighting in the melee. Then again, neither was Izuku.

 _But he was stronger than she was_. His next blow batted her parry aside and forced her a step backwards.

 _Faster._ Her counterattack barely glanced his shoulder, tearing the fabrics.

 _More steadfast._ Her next slice fell on his shield, like _begging_ him to bash her in the face. Which he complied, and sent her stumbling backwards.

 _More determined._ He ignored a bleeding graze on his shoulder, and swung his club arm in a full arc.

And most importantly...

“Midoriya! Midoriya!” rang the voices in his ears from behind the curtain of sand

_I have people to protect._

The panting villainess howled, and threw everything at him with a lunge.

Except _throwing everything you have at the opponent_ was _Izuku's_ game to begin with.

“ _DU BEKAR!_ ”

At once _what_ he had exactly done escaped him: Izuku could only imagine it involved a full-body tackle and a swing as savage as a beast's thrashing. The pipe hit her on the gauntlet, ripping the blade from her grip. The villainess had no time to grunt: the bash-tackle tore her feet off the ground and hurled her like a spinning-top hurtling at the opposite wall, right through the sandstorm of her own making.

There was a huge crash: her armored form left a cracking dent on the wall as she slid on the ground in a pile. The sandstorm about them dissipated all at once, leaving the floor covered in a few inches of fine grains.

Izuku was struggling to stand up now, black and blue and bleeding all over. But the sound of footsteps behind him emboldened his spirit and soothed his pain: _My friends are all right_ , it spoke to him, and that was all that mattered. So he dragged himself before the downed villainess, and pointed his makeshift mace in her face.

“Give up!” he cried. “I... I don't want to hurt any of you!”

The villainess stirred. “You... don't want? You don't... want?” she cried“But we-we _need_ to hurt you... brats.”

She clenched her fist. All at once all the sand in the room flowed back into her in a twister.

“Long as I... drain the sands.. out of just... one of you...”

Her eyes turned wild like a dying beast, just for a blink of an eye... and a torrent of sand went hurtling towards the shattered window.

The very shattered window that Uraraka was standing in front of.

“WATCH OUT!”

Izuku was too late. Hardly had he thrown himself towards her than the torrent hit home.

“URARAKA!”

His hand reached out – two inches, one, half an inch...

But the torrent was relentless.

Izuku didn't know what happened first: his hand catching Uraraka's...

… or the both of them being blown tumbling through the open window.

_“Mission... accomplished.”_

***

_It had all begun with an innocuous “help me”._

_A child who had cried “help me” because he had been lost. Because six years had been too small for crushed dreams, broken pedestals and friends who didn't need him no more. Because “Can I become a hero too?” was a dreadful question to a mother so caring, for which she had had no answer. Because within that tiny palm held a dream so noble, so lofty, so beyond his reach as to be tragic._

_A grown Man who had cried “help me” because he had been lost too. Because forty-four years was not nearly enough to conquer loneliness and loss of loved ones. Because in him there was a Took and a Baggins, and the two hadn't been overly fond of each other. Because deep beneath the shell of a respectable gentry, there was a Man desperately looking for his own purpose in life, for which maps and tales of old barely sufficed._

_There was a dormant toe joint that had screamed out, and a greater power who had responded._

_And now it happened again: A child who cried “help me”, and a grown Man who cried “help me”. Except this time it was no longer just about them, but about those they wished to protect._

_And the multiverse answered._

***

Haze filled Bilbo's eyes, like a great cloak of fog. He was sure he had caught Ori's hand just before impact, and then the luck and reflex of the little folk and the water beneath would have done the rest, right? Right?

But there was no water where he landed. Neither was there a limb-shattering crunch. His feet touched the ground light as feather.

The light of dusk was flaring into his eyes. In fact, it seemed like he had just fallen into a blink of a nap and then woken up.

In his Big-Folk sized hand was now a very feminine-looking palm beneath a very feminine curtain of brown hair.

“Master Baggins?”

***

Haze filled Izuku's eyes, like a great cloak of fog. He was sure he'd caught Uraraka's hands... and then she would have floated them both, right? Right?

Like he thought, there was no impact. There was no ground either, but a mighty splash of water. Not a very graceful landing, yet altogether adequate.

There was no light about him but for the blurry glint off what seemed to be waist-level water. In fact, it seemed like he had just fallen into a blink of a nap and then woken up.

In his hobbit-sized hand was a rugged, callussed, stone-like palm beneath a messy mass of brown mane and beard.

“M-Midoriya?”

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes and Fanon:
> 
> \- Aaaand... the moment of truth! Izuku and Bilbo are FINALLY no longer the only person to switch world!
> 
> \- The chapter's title is an allusion to the anime that inspired this crossover in the first place, Kimi no Na wa (Your Name). In said anime, the term "Musubi" refers to both knots and serendipity, and is something of an Arc Word.
> 
> \- For the sake of this chapter I've had to improvise an OC villain. This is her profile and ability:
> 
> Name: Kuriba Airan (九里波哀乱 - “Nine”, “Mile”, “Squall”, “Sorrow”, “Chaos”). Also a pun: “Iran Cliba(nari)” - since she envisions herself something of a Pahlavan Cataphract.
> 
> Villain name: Windswept Azadan. As in the Iranian noble cavalry (Asavaran-i-Azadan).
> 
> Quirk: Sandstorm – She can create a whirlwind of sand and gravel from immediate material in the surrounding, forming a defensive circle around herself and her allies that is virtually impenetrable by most ranged attacks. She can also direct sand twisters as a means to attack. However, all of her attacks has a crippling minimum range, so if/when someone breaks through she would have to defend herself with a scimitar.


	22. Something Unexpected About Frying Pans and Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, huge apologies to those who follow my work for the long delay. These last few weeks has been pretty rough on me in real life – it doesn't help that this was a monster of a chapter clocking at nearly 10K without any sensible breakpoint in the middle. Do enjoy the stay now that it's up and running!

**CHAPTER 21**

**SOMETHING UNEXPECTED ABOUT FRYING PANS AND FIRE**

 

_All of this is a very bad dream_ .

A bad dream that had Ochako dumped waist-deep in a lake, soaked to the bone, eyes watering and half-blind, and just about to hurl from the vertigo and the sand.

Ochako shuddered from the cold and wiped her face with one wet hand. Everything around her was dark and blurry, like reality smudged and smeared across a canvas by a clumsy artist's hand. Where was she? Certainly not in U.A., and if the dank smell of and cold draft was of any indication, she probably wasn't in _Tokyo_ any more.

She remembered being pushed back, and back, and back some more. She remembered the storm of sand and dust all about her. She remembered a gust, and her feet thrown off the floor. She remembered a shouting voice and a hand beneath a mass of green hair. She remembered grabbing that hand without a thought – it would not have been the first time she'd made them both float.

“Midoriya?”

The name that came to her lips was automatic.

But answering her call... wasn't Midoriya at all.

“Uraraka? I-is that you?”

It was a strange voice speaking what she _knew_ was a strange language that she still somehow understood perfectly.

She looked at the hand holding hers. Her glance traced quickly up its arm and its face.

Instead of Midoriya, what she saw was a vaguely humanoid... creature. He didn't look halfway threatening – short and round and not exactly... humanlike in proportions. He was also by chance extremely stout and callused for his size. This _creature_ had her alone in its company, in the darkness, in the middle of nowhere – and that alone was worth more than a little alarm.

On reflex she yanked her hand off. “Y-you aren't Midoriya!”

She would have backhanded the creature across the face, equally on reflex, if not for a spark of thought.

The creature knew her name. The creature didn't look like he would attack her. In fact, if the expression on his face was to be interpreted in a conventionally human way, he was probably confused too, and maybe a little... distressed? Those eyebrows were jittering, and that mouth was curled and trembling.

Ochako did what a heroine-in-training had taught herself all her life: to not shoot first and ask questions later. She lowered her hand. “Who... are you?”

The creature took a deep breath, whether out of relief or to bide his time she did not know. When he finally spoke it was with a low voice and an apologetic waving of hands.

“Uraraka. I need you to calm down, o-okay?” he said. “I... I don't know how to put it, but...”

He stopped and stared long at the water, then looked up at Ochako.

“But I  _am_ Midoriya Izuku.” He bit his lip. “I-I mean, you're free not to believe me, that's fine, but I need you to trust I'm not going to hurt you or... or anything, um...”

_You are what?_

Ochako's eyes jittered. This creature is... Midoriya? What were the odds he was speaking the truth, and what were the odds he was trying to take her for a ride? No, scratch that, what were the odds someone who wasn't Midoriya would know her name and his? They weren't even _that_ famous, were they?

_What about a quirk? A mind-reading quirk, if such a thing exist?_

Far-fetched, sure, but given the recent happenings Ochako wasn't going to take any chances. She emptied her lungs and breathed in hard. “Okay,” she said. “If you're really Midoriya, then you could probably answer a few questions, right?”

The creature sighed. He looked around the cavern, then back at her. “Wouldn't you like to get some place _dry_ first?” he offered.

Now Ochako was beginning to shiver. She'd been so caught up, she didn't feel the biting cold numbing both her legs. What could she have done but nod?

Now the creature looked around the chamber with eyes narrowed. There, on the far side of the vast cave lay a patch of dry ground, under the dim light of luminous fungi on the cavern wall. Not a bad deal all told.

They waded through the shallow pool, over a bed of jagged rocks and silt.

The urban girl inside Ochako was groaning for a warm bath, a dry change and maybe an electric heater. Her smarter side smacked her upside the head and screamed _not the time_.

 _Keep moving_ , she told herself. _One foot first, then the other_.

Wading wasn't so hard after the first few chilling steps. The floaty feeling in waist-deep water wasn't so hard

“Well?” she said. “Think you can answer a few questions now?”

The creature gathered the hem of his coat and squeezed hard. He held back a cough. “I guess I can,” he said. “Go ahead, Uraraka.”

Water trickled down his already wet trousers, drawing Ochako's attention to his bare – and hideously hairy – feet. She shuddered. _What did your teachers and parents told you about not judging?_

“Right,” said Ochako, puffing her cheeks. “What is the name of _our_ group chat?” She stressed the word _our._

The creature looked her in the eyes. “ _Entrance Exam Arena Trap Survivors,_ ” he said at once.

Ochako blinked. “And... what's the story behind it?”

The eye contact didn't break. “Because... we got into a fair tussle during the U.A. entrance exam,” answered the creature. “Because between you and Hatsume and I, we saved one another and got away with a fair bit of rescue points without nobody too badly hurt. And, uh... maybe because you girls thought double-team teasing me is funny.” He smiled. “It kind of is, though.”

He was reaching his thick fingers for the large mass of hair atop his head, and scratched the back of his mane in an oh-so-Midoriya way, awkward and good-natured and so endearing. Ochako was blinking furiously now, and steeled herself. _All of this might be a mind-reading quirk._

“Was I your opponent or your partner during the training exercise several weeks back?” she asked again.

“Opponent,” he said, again without a blink. “Kacch- I mean, _Bakugou_ must have caused you a whole lot of trouble didn't he?”

_That was still easy._

Then Ochako thought, and thought, and thought some more, and an ingenious question came to her. “Alright. Last question,” she said ceremoniously. “Why did Bakugou call you Deku? It isn't your real name, isn't it, _Midoriya Izuku?_ ”

It was both a test and a genuine _question,_ about whose answer Ochako was as curious as the next girl in the class. Even if there had been a mind-reading quirk at work, there was no way the creature would know an answer even Ochako didn't.

Besides, it wasn't like Ochako had ever had the opportunity or occasion to ask him. In fact, had she not had the chance to know him before, she would have assumed Deku was his real name and addressed him accordingly.

So Uraraka watched the creature with eyes peeled, waiting for him to stutter and stumble on his own words.

None of the sort happened. The creature only... sighed?

“My name can be read as _Deku_ , can't it?” he said. “ _Wooden doll._ _Useless._ That's what Bakugou thought I was all my life. And perhaps I've been, you know. Until... well, until a few _really_ lucky things happened to me, and here I am.”

Ochako blinked again. And again. And again.

A very large part of her wanted to do nothing but reach out and just _hold_ him, because she was afraid and he was probably afraid too and wasn't that what hugs were for? Another equally large part was telling her to ask him if she could call him _Deku_ too, because in her mind _Deku_ and _Dekiru_ were just slightly removed, and was there ever a better way to brush off an insult than take it and make it your own badge of honor?

But first thing first. “Y-you are really Midoriya?”

The creature, no, _Midoriya_ , looked her in the eyes again. “Been telling you for the past ten minutes, haven't I?” he said.

But then perhaps Midoriya wouldn't appreciate either gesture coming from nowhere very much, now would he?

A more pressing question came to her lips. “What has happened to you?”

“To _us_ both _, unfortunately_ ,” mused shapeshift-Midoriya.

And the Ochako looked at herself, reflected upon the water. Her jaw proceeded to fall on the floor.

“Oh. No.”

Ochako was not herself.

Chest flattened. Beard grown. Something not to be mentioned in polite company sprouted somewhere equally taboo. To say nothing about gaining about ten kilos and losing thirty centimeters of height in a heartbeat.

The horror wasn't _quite_ enough to shock Ochako into a scream – she was, after all, a heroine-in-training and not just any girl out there. It was, still, plenty enough to make her stagger and wobble and _plop_ herself down at the water's edge. Thoughts swirled around her head to the point they were just incoherent noises.

Drinking from just about any water source wasn't a very good idea normally, but for once Ochako didn't care so much about hygiene. There was the bile rising in her throat, a faint spell lingering about her head, and the residue taste of sand and dirt and blood in her mouth. _Wouldn't be able to wash it off in a month._

Cold water washed over her face and down her throat; and with it came some measure of clarity. She drew herself backwards, closer to the luminous fungi and Midoriya.

“Uraraka?” he said. “Are you alright?”

“Midoriya,” she said. “There _is_ an explanation, right?” _Right?_

And now he was staring long into the water. When he tore his eyes from the lake and back at her, his gaze was downcast.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“How is this your fault?” said Ochako. Then a thought sparked in her. “Actually, scratch that, you said it yourself, _what_ exactly happened to us? Actually actually, scratch that too, does that mean you know _how_ this happen? And how do we go back to normal again?”

“I... don't know how to put it concisely,” Midoriya said. “You... will believe me, right?”

It was hard to associate the stubby, hairy-footed creature with Midoriya, but after a while it wasn't so hard any more. There was still that _feel_ about him, the sort of radiant kindness that made her _want_ to be his friend in the first place. Hard to describe, sure, and harder to put into rational terms. Ochako decided just to trust her heart, because rationality had failed utterly. In fact, it was that radiant _kindness_ about him that calmed her: like a silent pronouncement of “ _Everything's alright, because I AM HERE_ ”.

So Ochako looked him in the eyes. “You're my _friend_ , Midoriya,” she said, and tried her best to smile. “Best friend in a long while, y'know.” The corner of her mouth twitched. “Well, uh, this is _really_ weird, you know, so I can't promise to trust everything you say unconditionally. But!” She harrumphed. “I'll do my best not to laugh; does that help?”

Her attempt got Midoriya to chuckle a little. Mission success, she thought.

But then his face went severe again. “Uraraka, there's something I've never told anyone,” he said. “I'm not the _sole_ owner of my own body. Haven't been since I was six.” The silence was such that Ochako could hear her own heartbeat.“It was... it was the best thing to have _ever_ happened to me.”

***

_All of this is a very bad prank._

No, Ori told himself. Not a prank. A prank wouldn't save him from a hundred-feet drop into dodgy waters. A prank wouldn't change the stony cavern ceiling into the open sky at dusk. A prank wouldn't trade goblin-made tunnels into a bulwark of stone and steel and shiny glass. 

A prank wouldn't be so elaborate as to turn Master Bilbo Baggins into a boyish Man wearing a torn grey suit on his torso, black trousers on his legs, funny-looking shoes on his feet, and a mass of green hair on his head.

“Master Bag- wait a second, this isn't right is it?”

Ori's voice was what wasn't right: too high, too feminine, though the energy was just right. He looked down at himself and very nearly yelped. He was tall now, taller than Thorin even, and curvy in the right places just like an elven maiden in Rivendell. No, a prank wouldn't turn him into a woman of the Mannish race either, nor stuff him into the particularly queer outfit clinging about his body.

To think of it, was the man in front of him _really_ Master Baggins?

“You  _are_ Master Baggins right?” he exclaimed. “What's with the height? The hair? The clothes? The-”

A huge _crash_ a dozen yards away cut off Ori's babbling.

He turned about... and at once forgot everything about his apparent change of body, gender, style and _world_. Because that right there was everything Ori could have ever asked for: To be part of a story worth many a bard's song and tankard of ale in between.

In the distance there was a fight; and not any fight! On one side there was a gigantic creature, taller than a High Man who dwelt in the land of Gondor below and built thicker than a dwarf, with a bird-like beak, indigo-dyed skin and brain perilously exposed. On the other there was a masked strider clad in tunic over mesh, hurling and vaulting over the broken landscape.

The last crash was caused by, of all things, the blue-skinned beaked monster slamming the ground with his bare fist and shattering the rock as if it had been glass. The mesh-mailed strider was – and Ori was rubbing his eyes really hard now – turning himself into the consistency of a _sheet of cloth_? _Is he just... floating away like that?_

Now his body had reformed – however that happened. His right arm at once flattened into a very long harpoon-like projectile; he hurled it through the monster's neck. It was a clean hit... except nothing happened. No severed head, no cut vessel, no fountain of blood gushing forth from a wound that should have by all means been fatal ten times over. No, instead the monster nonchalantly grabbed the elongated arm, yank the Man towards him fast as an elf-arrow, and then rammed its fist against his face. With a _wham_ the hero flew backward a dozen yards – the only thing sparing him a nasty slam against the broken wall behind him was his ability to apparently turn into a sheet at will.

Ori wasn't so sure what he was seeing. What he _was_ certain, was that it was a scene straight out from myths and legends.

The panic that he was supposed to feel was far beneath the giddiness, the excitement, the desire to fall on his knee and turn to whichever direction Erebor and Moria was in gratitude for Mahal for having granted him – and him alone! - such an opportunity to witness a clash between mythic heroes. He would have continued to gawk – Mahal, he would have even _cheered_ , had Master Baggins (or rather the Man taking his place) had not grabbed his hand _hard_ and dragged him behind the corner before he could even react to anything at all.

“To me, Master Ori, to me!” was all the maybe-maybe-not-Master-Baggins said, before dragging him off like a sheep.

Before Ori could so much as utter a word of objection, he had found himself tucked away behind a corner of that enormous glass-plated building, tall as a small hill and far squarer. The Man was looking around the surrounding, until he spotted a door on the side of the great structure, painted green and apparently not very much used. “After me,” he said plainly, and once again Ori found himself dragged off.

“If this is U.A... there must be more than a few places we can stuff ourselves into,” he said, probably not caring if Ori understood a word. “Follow me, Master Ori.” As it happened, he had absolutely no idea.

Ori groaned a little inside. _Do I look like I have a choice?_ He thought, suppressed his doubt, and took off.

The door opened into a large, marble-tiled corridor that made Ori's inner stonemason swoon. The floor was smooth, so clean, so shiny he could use it like a mirror. The tiles were so precisely cut and aligned so flawlessly as far as his eyes could see, too, like a troupe of expert dwarven masons from Iron Hills had worked and toiled on them for weeks.

The lack of torch-sconces, candelabras or otherwise conventional means of lighting did make Ori feel particularly uneasy; as did the very large number of very large doors on either side of the corridor, each so large a troll need only hunch a little to fit.

The green-haired Man stopped before one of them, chosen seemingly at random. He slid the door aside – a strange door mechanism to be sure – and gestured Ori to follow him into the dark hall.

The loss of his kin's ability to see well in the darkest night was the most discomforting Ori had felt thus far. The Mannish eyes he had instead took a while getting used to the sheer darkness, and once it had, Ori couldn't have but let out a 'wow'.

The place looked like one of those classrooms held for little dwarven boys he'd been to a long while ago, except far larger, more ornate and well-crafted. All furnitures were of excellent craftsmanship, the floor was without a speck of dust far as he could tell, and there was enough space inside to fit perhaps a literal throng.

While Ori's jaw was agape still, Master Baggins had quietly closed the sliding-door behind them. Dark for dark business, indeed.

“That should take care of that,” said Master Baggins, rubbing his hands. “We should be safe here for a time, so long as we don't make _too_ much noise. I hope.”

He gestured Ori towards one of the desks, and took his seat at the desk besides after Ori had sat down.

A moment of silence passed – less out of awkwardness and more for them both to catch a breath and maybe a handle of... well, of whatever was going on about them.

It was a long moment if Ori had ever seen one, but in the end he found his voice and the courage to let it be heard first.

“Alright, alright, my dear sir,” he said, “this is all too quick, too sudden, too- well, Mahal bless me, I know the occasion isn't suitable at any rate, but an explanation would be good!” His finger rapped on the edge of the desk. “Or maybe a confirmation of a sort that you _indeed_ are our good burglar and not an elf-mirage or one of those terrible and nasty illusions to plague the wayward!”

The Man gave him a stare that had 'neither time nor place my dear good sir' written all over it. But then he relented – he looked out and around the room and then rubbed his chest, his back propped against the wall.

“It is as you say, Master Ori, first business first,” he said. “Goodness, that the day would come that the respectable Bilbo Baggins has to convince a dwarf he really _is_ Bilbo Baggins!”

Force of habit made Ori search his belt for his notebook. Unsurprisingly there was no notebook there, just the hem of a well-fitted skirt. “I'm listening,” he said instead. “Tell me something only Master Baggins would know, perhaps? I'm open to suggestion...”

The lack of book and pencil was making him particularly uneasy. More uneasy than being inside the body of a Mannish girl at any rate.

The Man folded his arm. “Well, for starters, I can tell you again the exact circumstance that led us, well, to where we are,” he said indignantly. “Suffice to say I'll have a couple of choice words to Bofur come the morrow.”

Ori's eyes went goggly. _That's one thing all right._ “I... see?” he said. “Anything else you can reveal?”

“The leader of our Company and his borderline irrational hatred of elves?”

“Everybody knows that. Something else?”

“Oin's large share in financing our present excursion?”

“Huh, that's new,” said Ori. “Guess I never quite cared about who paid for what very much? Something else please?”

“Fili and Kili never pronouncing my family name right?”

“Well, that's something,” said Ori. “Anything else?”

The green hair barely concealed a mischievous flash. “Why, shall I tell you exactly what you ate at my smial on the day of our departure?” he said. “Seed-cakes, three and a half, by the way, and more sausages and shaved hams than your two brothers put together, washed down by a little ale and more tea than I thought dwarves are like to drink!”

Ori groaned at the memory. If there was something he _didn't_ take much pride in as a dwarf, it was their kin's enormous appetite.

“No need to repeat that, Master Baggins,” he said. “Well, that's something you couldn't have guessed unless you were there, I guess. I suppose I have little choice bu ttrust that you are who you say you are, have I?”

He reached for his head with the intention of scratching it, but stopped himself before a finger touched the hair atop. It would feel much like fondling a lady without her express permission and that would be just improper.

“Still, maybe an explanation or two? Or half an explanation if that's all you have?”

Master Baggins – because now there was little doubt that was who he was – slumped over the table.

“Look, Ori, my friend, I know this is going to be hard, and it really is within your rights to say no,” he said apologetically, “but I need you to trust me and do. What. I. Tell. You.” He stressed each word through gritted teeth. “It's important and not just for the two of us. As for the explanation...”

Master Baggins' sentence was punctuated by more whamming and slamming and crashing echoing from outside, and at once Ori wished he had a good vantage point to watch rather than somewhere safe to hide.

“Suppose you wouldn't mind if I gave you the full story _after_ we're out of whatever mess this is,” said Master Baggins. “The short version is, you and I are inside bodies not our own, in a very different world and time, caught in a queer business only Eru knows why or how.”

By Mahal, that was even better than any story anyone in Iron Hill _period_ could have told him. Except it wasn't quite so pleasant now that Ori was its main character.

Long did he fold his arms (trying not to violate the young lady's chest with the gesture was harder to do than it sounded), and considered his options. There weren't too many of them, and almost every single one would have to depend on Master Baggins anyway – it was just so that he seemed _way_ more calmer and more 'experienced' (so to speak) in his business than Ori could ever hope to be.

Besides, hadn't he been the one to tell Ori to trust him and everything would turn out fine?

Meanwhile, Master Baggins had gone off to one corner of the room: there sat a strange contraption sat: its contour resembled a gigantic jar upturned upon a three-legged stand. He fiddled with it for a bit, and then returned with what looked like two full glasses. He handed one to Ori – not without a reminder:

“Careful, my dear sir,” he said. “Paper cup – much softer than it looks!”

Briefly Ori debated the wisdom of drinking random things found in what might well be a dungeon, but then the burning _thirst_ in his throat intervened. _Ah, to the tarnation with it,_ he went, and downed the glass in a single gulp.

It was the most amazing cup of cold water Ori had ever tasted, crisp and filling and hit all the right spots. Made him feel almost guilty that they got to the water first while Nori and Bofur were presumably still parched in their neck of the rocks.

And just to see if Master Baggins was telling the truth, he squeezed the glass – it _crunched_ within his hand: the whole thing was just a waxed sheet of parchment shaped into a cup, and somehow water didn't drip out of it! _What wondrous craftsmanship!_

“Well, my dear sir,” he said. “'Tis true I've got more questions I'd like to ask now but for the time, and yes, I _have_ said I would trust you and on that I shan't renege.” His fingers turned to fidget with the remains of the cup. “But at the very least, since I'm not in my own body (however that happened) – I thought it would be prudent to know whose body this is, if it indeed _had_ an owner before I intruded!”

“That's a good dwarf, my dear sir!” said Master Baggins. “I think I can answer that. This body of mine belongs to the good young Mister Izuku Midoriya, a right fine young man should I say so. And the body of yours belong to a young Miss Uraraka Ochako, and yes I _do_ know and like her quite well as a person.” He cleared his throat rather loudly. “As such, Master Ori, let's say I very much appreciate your keeping your hands to yourself and hope you'll keep it up.”

Ori nodded furiously. “Right you are, Master Baggins,” he said. “'Tis not in a dwarf's nature to harm a woman's honour!”

Just then then Ori's ears caught something. A tiny, buzzing noise, like a bumblebee flapping its wings against a window... except it came out of Master Baggins' jacket!

“I-is-is that a literal _bee_ in your bonnet, Master Baggins?” he exclaimed softly.

***

Hatsume Mei had so rarely hesitated before. The one time she had... something terrible happened on her watch.

Just five minutes ago she was still thinking _I have this_. And then the villains entered the room and whipped up a literal storm, and everything went down the garbage chute. Then she saw the stream of sand and silt bursting towards Uraraka. She heard Midoriya's hoarse cry. She tasted dirt in her mouth.

And she'd done nothing. Her feet were petrified, her brain frozen. Or sanded.

_What's happened?_

Now all was quiet around her. Yet the room was in complete chaos. The villain was lying face-down on a bed of sand of her own making. Mineta was shivering in one corner. Every piece and article of furniture had been trashed; tables and chairs broken and tossed all over the place, blackboard torn off and torn apart, bits and pieces of broken glass from the lightbulbs above lay strewn all over the sand-swept floor.

The only thing to remain in somewhat good shape was her pile of gadget – and even then the babies on top of the pile was blown away and batttered beyond immediate usefulness.

It was minutes before her wits came back – and with it a torrent of raw _fear_ as the last few minutes' image played back in her mind.

She staggered to the window in question. What felt like a rush of cold wind buffeted her face. “Midoriya? Uraraka?” Her voice died in her throat.

They had vanished. Midoriya and Uraraka had vanished.

It wasn't a problem with her eyes; she could still pick out the specks in the wall of a skyscraper several kilometers away. She rubbed them anyway, and stared so hard at the ground below her gaze could have pierced through to the center of the earth.

But there was nothing there. No mass of hair, green  _or_ brown. No shuffling figures darting to safety. Not even two bodies lying in pools of their own blood – and Mei felt like slapping herself for even  _thinking_ the possibility. 

_They're my first friends_ . 

Midoriya was  _very_ hurt, and Uraraka wasn't looking very well herself. They couldn't have gotten away so fast.

_Had the villains gotten to them then?_ And then raw fear washed over her: hadn't the villains say they were seriously looking for someone to kill?

No, this wouldn't do, she thought. Her unconscious mind told her – no, ordered her even – to rush out there and comb the school building inside out until she'd found Midoriya and Uraraka. But the inventor inside held her back. That sort of bravado, it said, was for heroes, and maybe heroes in training. An inventor had to be rational, rational,  _rational_ , and avoid exposure to danger unless completely inevitable otherwise.

Speaking of which, there was a hero-in-training right here, right there... and he looked like he might soak his pants any time now. So much for Class 1-A's reputations. If the jerk Monoma from 1-B had been around he'd have a field day.

Mei's next rational thought was to ignore Mineta Minoru for the moment, and turn to her phone.

Uraraka's phone was offline. For good reason: it was lying in the corner where she'd been standing, smashed against the wall, broken beyond immediate repair. Midoriya's phone returned a dialing tune... except nobody picked up the phone. She tried again... and again... and again...

Now Mineta was beginning to stir in the corner. “Are-are-are you sure that's a good idea?” He whimpered. “W-wouldn't the phone paint a b-bigger target on them? On us?”

Mei sighed, and threw a glance at him. It wasn't like he didn't have a point. Still, Mei did not remember a single time throughout her sixteen years of life and several hundred inventions when she'd been  _more_ angry, and furious, and exasperated, and just plain  _emotional._ Mineta was just at the wrong time and wrong place.

“Are you  _sure_ you're even a hero-in-training?” she snapped. 

“I-I am!” he cried. “B-b-but things l-like this isn't supposed to happen! I-I'm not supposed to f-fight against villains, well, not now, and not like this! It isn't like my quirk is even that useful!”

As they were speaking, the footsteps above and below were echoing about, loud, loud, _loud_ – as were the sound of stuff being broken into or broken period _. The villains must be trashing the school... out of spite?_

Mei folded her arms and cocked her head back. This wasn't what she'd signed up for, no, no, a thousand times no. Unlike Mineta, that didn't mean she was just going to stand there and whimper and scream. There was something they still needed to do, and fast.

“You don't know what to do with your quirk?” The coldness of her own voice startled her. “Fine, I'll tell you what. Restrain that villain. And if you're _still_ afraid...”

She came over the pile of intact babies, and after a while of rummaging tossed him a device that looked like it would fit his arm.

“Cloaking device. Bends light just slightly, but useful enough,” she said. “A few years back the military was developing stuff like this for tanks and planes.” She drew a very stiff, humorless breath. “I just thought, hey, if the army can do that, maybe I can too.”

For a few seconds Mineta stared at her as if she had gone mad. She simply stared back.

Nobody won a stare-down contest with Hatsume Mei, and Mineta was no exception. With a sigh he slipped the bracer on his arm and pressed the button. In ten seconds flat he turned into a blurry shape but still quite distinguishably Mineta had the lighting been a little better – not exactly as good as she intended.

Then again, there was no light around. _This much cloaking is plenty enough._

Mineta swallowed, once, twice, thrice. Then he puffed his chest – perhaps it was his way of saying _I can do this_. Then he walked towards the unconscious villainess – pop went one of the balls on his head. Then another. Then another. Spiteful glee was well rising within Mei as Mineta was doing his handiwork – to the surprise of her own self.

In less than a minute the unconscious sandblower was attached to the wall and floor with half a dozen balls on each limb. Then he drew back with a gasp and a “Is this fine?”

“Yes. Yes it is.”

Hatsume Mei supposed she could be spiteful too, bad coming to worse.

***

It spoke volumes of Izuku's confusion that he'd been talking and talking and _talking_ for fifteen minutes straight, and his thoughts were still in a knot.

He didn't know what was weirder: that he was holding hands with a girl in the darkness, or that those hands belonged not to him and not to her respectively. There was lingering pain in his limbs, but he could move his arms better now, and his legs were not as busted as he thought it would have been. A silver lining in a right mess of a raincloud. In fact, it felt like an enormous rock he didn't know had existed was being lifted from his heart.

Because it was the first time he'd spoken of his secret to someone – anyone at all.

He'd told her, as concisely as he could, the circumstances Bilbo and himself had been caught in since he was a little older than a toddler. He'd told her of the periodic switch, that it was triggered by sleep, that it had taken them a while to adjust but they'd both gotten used to it and taken it as part of their everyday life now. He'd told her about Bilbo's decision to join in an adventure with a company of dwarves, and the dragon that might or might not be around at its end. And of course, he'd told her – abridged, of course – of _how_ exactly their predicament had been involving him in said adventure.

Izuku wasn't half as good a storyteller as Bilbo, but Uraraka had been listening quite attentively.

Better still, Uraraka had taken to this body-switching deal surprisingly well. She was sitting cross-legged and facing him, her round eyes only blinking once every so often, like she was listening to an incredibly intriguing story rather than, well, the traumatic business their predicament might have been be to her.

“So, Midoriya, you and this Bilbo person has been doing this for nearly _a decade_ now, and you haven't told anyone? Anyone at all?”

“We actually spoke about this a couple of times – through notes, of course,” Izuku said. “At the end of the day we agreed that the 'switching bodies once every so often during sleep' is too _weird_ – even as a quirk. His position has always been to let me do some growing up, and then let him know if I'm fine with telling the world.” He coughed. “Until, well, today happened...”

“So there _is_ a way for us to go back to normal, right?” said Uraraka. “Sleep, is it?”

“I suppose for me there is,” Izuku said. “I'm not so sure about you though – this is the first time I've brought someone along, and it wasn't even triggered by sleep too!”

Uraraka shook her head. “Midoriya, I'm trying to be optimistic here!” she said. Then her gaze trailed along the cavern-wall and up to the ceiling, so far away it was swallowed by the darkness above. “Anyway, I take it your body-switch partner doesn't have a habit of taking a dip in a deep cave, does he?”

Izuku nodded. _My thought exactly._ A million thoughts were coursing through his head. The _how_ question was the loudest, but also probably the least relevant.

Now was the time to ask _where_ and _what now_.

And then a spark of ingenuity hit him.

“Ori!” He slammed his fist into his other palm. “He must have written something down!”

Maybe it was a blessing in disguise that his first dual-switch (if it could be called such) with people in Bilbo's world involved Ori rather than one of the less erudite, less writerly dwarves.

“Ori?”

“Ori. The dwarf. You're borrowing his body, Uraraka,” said Izuku quickly. “Do you happen to have a notebook under that cloak?”

“Notebook?” Uraraka looked down at her waist. “Uh... no. But there's this... huge tome kind of thing?”

And sure enough, Uraraka dislodged from her belt a very familiar-looking volume, except slightly worse for the wear from the last time he saw it.

Izuku had given dwarven book-binding too little credit. Only the cover was soaked from all the splashing and sploshing.

Uraraka was peeking behind as he was flipping the pages. At least once Izuku threw her a glance: Her eyes were going starry at the many well-drawn pictures of mountains and rivers and rural roads, and particularly the drawings of old buildings and forts. He doubted she appreciated the Westron script very much, however: Uraraka had never been a good language student and never intended to be.

Finally Izuku flipped to the last written double-page. On one side there was a hastily scrawled map, much poorer-drawn than everything else before. It was also very smudged and virtually illegible – seemed like much lower quality of workmanship than Ori's standard. On the other, there was a whole page full of hastily jotted down notes _._

Now Uraraka was looking that way too, and her blinking grew faster. “Midoriya?” she said. “What does it say?”

“Let me see,” said Izuku. “ _Got into a quarrel of a sort with Nori and Bofur – he wanted to send Master Baggins alone looking for water in goblin country!_ ” he read. “ _Of course it's Ori to the rescue yet again, and here we are, looking for water in goblin country still, but as a team!_ ” He huffed. “Why am I not surprised?”

Uraraka's lips curled. “Goblins?” she said. “Like in one of those fantasy video games?”

Izuku nodded. “They're much less ridiculous when they are real, though,” he said. “At least they're real in this world and a huge threat to the dwarves.”

“So these people are sending two guys out to collect water from a cave that might be full of these 'goblins'? While they were just out chilling?” Uraraka folded her arms. “They aren't very nice, are they?”

“Not all of them... well, not all of the dwarves, that is,” said Izuku. “Ori's quite taken with the stories Bilbo's telling, and the rest of the dwarves tend to be nice people for the most part. Except Ori's older brother Nori isn't exactly scrupulous for the most part, and is... quite notorious for a couple of things. And Bofur is just lazy most of the time.”

Uraraka nodded. “Mmm,” she said, pointing back to the page. “That's not all what it says, is it?” 

“ _Not hard to find cave that sounds like there's water in the bottom somewhere. Lots of pretty rocks about. Majestic view too – Note to self: All beautiful things deserve embellishments._ ” Izuku trailed his finger along the line break. “ _Tiny cave opened into massive cavern chamber. Pretty, but there might be goblins ahead behind a long bridge-_ . That's the last line.”

Then the writing ended – abruptly.

“Ori must have been in the middle of using the notebook when  _something_ happened so suddenly he had to stow it away,” concluded Izuku. “Most likely a goblin attack. But then why are we here at the bottom of this cavern-” He looked up.

Then he saw, his eyes more used to the darkness now, what looked like a long natural stone bridge very near the ceiling.

“Could they have fallen from the top?” Izuku thought out loud. “No, this much water is not nearly enough to break the fall. That's nearly fifty meters. They could have been killed-”

And yet they were here.

Uraraka nodded furiously. “Well, if we're fine, that means these people – Bilbo and Ori, right? They would be fine too, aren't they?”

The logic wasn't exactly _sound_ , but it gave Izuku some small measures of comfort and for now that was good enough.

“Let's hope he is,” “I... might just be guessing, but odds are Ori's is handling your body as we speak.” A flush came to his face, along with the desire to swallow his own tongue. “I-I don't mean in t-that way!”

Uraraka, again, was taking this _way_ better than he thought she would. “He's a guy that likes books, right?” she said. “I suppose there could be worse people to trade bodies with for a day.”

Then she sat back and just stared at the water. It was almost peaceful – like a date, even. The mere thought drew a right flush to his cheek; Izuku began to shake his head furiously. _Not the time, Izuku, not the time!_

Then suddenly Uraraka stirred, and Izuku almost yelped ina start. “Midoriya?” she asked. “What kind of person is this Bilbo?”

He rubbed his chest. _Ah, I can answer that._ “You can't ask for a better caretaker,” he said. “Writes like a pro, loves his poetry and genealogies, can beat a Master Chef in a cook-off, pretty skilled at conkers...”

The next thing Uraraka said, again, caught him by surprise.

“Midoriya?” she said. “Would you mind-” There was a rather long pause. “if I called you _Deku_ too?”

***

Perhaps whoever designed U.A. had never expected a villain attack of such scale and scope. Nevertheless, the entire compound made for a wealth of excellent hiding places just by merit of being a school alone.

Bilbo tried very hard not to think about the fight going on outside. It spoke measures to Izuku's influence on him that he couldn't _not_ think about the business like an analyst of a sirt.

Edgeshot versus an unknown villain.

Bilbo had read a bit about him – fifth ranking hero in all of Japan and a master of infiltration, rapid incapacitation and nighttime operations. He couldn't have been given a more unfair match-up. He was fighting in the wide open, one-on-one, against a virtual mountain of a villain who had just demonstrated his ability to survive blows that could kill grown Dunedain several times over. His flattened-limb shots were unto the creature as a fauntling throwing pebbles at a King's knight in gleaming mail.

But perhaps there was a glint of hope. The villain hadn't able to hit him well enough either. An upside to having a body malleable as pure gold was that the monster's punches and tackles didn't stick at all.

And help would arrive any time now, wouldn't it? The Japanese hero society, while altogether human and nowhere near mythic proportions, wouldn't let this insult go unpunished. Would they?

At any rate, so absorbed Bilbo was in _finding his way to a safe place_ that he hadn't noticed the frantic buzzing on the side his trousers until Ori's shaking finger pointed at his pocket.

“I-is-is that a literal _bee_ in your bonnet, Master Baggins?”

Bilbo at once felt like hammering himself in the face. _Of course, Izuku's smartphone! Where else would I turn to for answers?_

He pulled out the phone, flicked it on, and at once went cross-eyed. _“You have 12 missed calls from Miss Inventor.”_

“Mahal bless me.”

Bilbo turned back to find a very sparkly-eyed Ori staring at the lit smartphone screen like it contained all the truth in the world (which, to his credit, it kind of _did_ ). The fact that he was wearing _Uraraka's_ face and speaking in her voice didn't help.

“Master Baggins?” he asked. “What is this amazing artifact?”

And how could Bilbo have blamed him? His first reaction to a smartphone had been of near-religious awe too. By Yavanna, it was a device that allowed you to communicate with anyone anywhere anytime, and doubled as an endless library and all the maps in the world stuffed together, all within his palm! That was several years ago – funny how the most miraculous would appear mundane after he'd been used enough to it.

“It's called a smartphone, Master Ori, and no you can't touch it!” said Bilbo. “I mean, well, it isn't mine to give or take. As everything else about this body, I'm merely borrowing it in the good faith that I use it to good end – or at least do no harm.”

But Ori didn't relent. “Just a look-see?” he cooed. “Pretty please?”

Bilbo sighed. Never should it be known that Bilbo was _not_ weak to puppy-eyes and earnest begging.

“All right,” he said.

Almost at once he wished he had not say yes. Ori proceeded to handle the phone in a manner akin to a right gorilla with a slab of precious stone – which was to say, squeezing, pressing and quite near slamming his fingers all over the lighted surface.

“Goodness gracious, that's not how you handle a smart-phone!” he said. “This thing is as delicate as jewelry of pure gold and far more useful!” And then he gave a very quick on-hand demonstration: sliding, not pressing, and tapping rather than squezing, for one. Thankfully Ori hadn't manhandled the smartphone too badly – the thing was still in one piece and not broken or cracked _yet_.

Ori _had_ , to his credit again, brought Bilbo's attention to some particularly pertinent information by way of his random tapping and pressing. _He opened Izuku's internet news app._

“Ooh, look, look, there are letters here!” he exclaimed, pointing at the Japanese script on the news app. “Can you read it, Master Baggins? What does it say?”

“Yes I can, Master Ori, and...” Bilbo could feel himself going pale and faint as his eyes scanned the lines. “Goodness gracious, what star shines upon our circumstance today that there has been naught but bad news? Here, ' _Greater Tokyo Under Attack!_ ' And here, ' _Villain breached U.A. Barrier!'_ Here too: _'Where are the heroes – asked many bystanders!_ ', _'Unprecedented attack since the unspeakable days!'_ ” Breathe in. Breathe out. “Well, Master Ori, I do believe we've chosen a very bad time for our visit.”

Ori was unfazed. “You mean a war, ongoing, right here, right now? Heroes of mythical proportions fighting songworthy battles?” he said, raising a finger. “Where are the enemies and when can we-”

Bilbo sighed. At other times he would have been proud of the young dwarf's boldness – and his brother and altogether too bellicose king would be, too. Being stuck in Miss Uraraka's body in the middle of under-villain-attack Tokyo was _not_ one of them.

“Alright, Master Ori, a few ground rules, if you would care to heed my words,” he said. “First, no picking fights whatsoever. These people aren't  _goblins_ . They wield power that could give  _Gandalf_ a very bad day, and that's just the lesser of them.” 

Ori froze on the spot.

“Truly?” he said. “Well, if we can't fight them, can I just keep an eye out for material to _write_ about them instead?”

Only Ori could think it was a good idea, but Bilbo couldn't help but chuckle. “Not sure that's entirely appropriate or very wise, Master Ori,” he said. “But it wouldn't go well with you to let a good story go to waste, would it?”

“Most certainly not! I didn't train to be a scribe to let a good tale go unrecorded!” Bilbo was starting to think Uraraka's voice fitted Ori more than Ori's own. “If there's a first, there must be a second, right?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Bilbo. “Do forgive me, but from this moment until I've learnt what has happened to us all, you are not to act – or speak – in front of others without me saying yes.”

“Eh?”

“Please understand, Master Ori” Bilbo said sternly. “You are now quite literally inside the body of a very fine young lady of splendid character and unsullied reputation. I implore – no, _demand_ you to do whatever you can _not_ to damage her good name, and that means not making a fool of yourself _in addition to_ keeping your hands to yourself! And, Eru and Mahal preserve us both, there are more ways to make a fool out of yourself in this world than there are stars in the sky – not least because you know nothing about it!”

Ori looked very thoughtful for a minute. His response was surprisingly positive. “If you say so, then on my beard and locks it will be so, Master Baggins,” he said. “I'll do what you say. Like I said! 'Tis not a good dwarf's way for ill thing to befall a woman if he can help it!”

“Good,” said Bilbo. “Now if you would avail me a minute to update myself on the current happenstances...” and resumed flicking through the news.

Now the sun had set, and from the sound of things the battle outside was far from concluding. The lack of official responses, again, was too much to ignore, and the torrent of ill tiding pouring in through the news app only got worse even as they sat.

 _Where_ is _All Might, indeed?_

_I suppose I shall trust All Might – as much as Izuku does at any rate. Because there's little else to do, is there._

Ere long Ori piped up once more. “Master Baggins?” he said. “What kind of person is this Izuku Midoriya fellow?”

 _Ah, that's almost too simple to answer._ “If Eru would bless me with a son sometime down the line,” he said with too broad a grin. “I'd hold a great feast for all Bagginses and Boffins, and Tooks and Brandybucks, and Grubbs, and Chubbs, and Burrowses, and Hornblowers, and Bolgers, Bracegirdles, oodbodies, Brockhouses and Proudfoots... and Sackville-Bagginses too, imagine that! And of course all the dwarves I can invite across all corners of Eriador! I would indeed hold such a feast for three days and three nights, if my son would turn out half as well as Izuku.”

So absorbed he was in naming the various genealogies and families of the Shire that he failed to notice the smartphone had been ringing _again_. When he finally got down to it, the other side had hung up. _“You have 13 missed calls from Miss Inventors”_.

_Goodness gracious, this is no way for a prim and polite hobbit to behave!_

“Now if you wouldn't mind keeping quiet, Master Ori – and I do mean _quiet_ quiet,” said Bilbo. “I'd better let young Miss Mei Hatsume know we're safe... in a sense.” _Before she might do something foolish._

***

Mineta Minoru was shivering like a malaria patient in a corner of the room.

This was the closest thing Minoru could ever get to being in the same room – natch, being within an arm's length of a girl, with another unconscious and tied up in a corner. Yet he was scared  _stiff_ rather than feel any sort of, well,  _excitement_ . Probably because one of the women was a mad scientist and the other was a mad terrorist. 

Or maybe it was the footsteps drawing near, trampling all around them. Were the villains coming back?

But then the footsteps came and went, to Minoru's great relief. If the villains cared at all for their comrade, they sure as hell didn't show it. Good riddance, thought Minoru.

Now all that was left, was Hatsume Mei sitting like right next to him; had been for the last ten minutes. And ten minutes, well, that was somewhat enough for her intimidation to wear off a little on him.

Another five minutes had passed, and even the footsteps outside had nearly completely faded. As silence returned, so did Minoru's courage.

 _Come on, Minoru! You'll never have a chance in an empty classroom with a girl again for a long while! At least talk to her, darn it!_ Granted, said girl was well-covered by a cloaking field and even had that not been the case he had done basically nothing to impress her. It also didn't help that she was twitching and fidgeting impatiently.

_You're not talking to her to impress, but to take her mind off of Midoriya and Uraraka! That's noble enough, right? Right?_

So he huffed and puffed his chest. “Hey, Hatsume,” he said. “W-want to talk about something? Anything?”

“Sure,” said Hatsume half-heartedly. “Anything, you said? What on Earth were you doing in  _our_ classroom after hour?”

“Ah, well, you see...”

_Should I tell the truth? Should I lie my way through?_

Minoru gulped. _How about both?_ “I, uh, I thought you might be coming back from the clinic, like Midoriya and Uraraka were talking, so-” He put on his best smooth-guy impersonation. “I thought you might appreciate not coming back to an empty classroom, heh-”

Unsurprisingly the amount of good impression he'd made was basically zero. “Yeah, that's touching,” she said. “Don't think I've even _spoken_ to you at all to receive such 'preferential' treatment.” 

“Well, no, of course, but think of it this way! I... well, heard Midoriya said all kinds of wonderful stuff about you and I thought maybe if I'm nice and cool enough you might make something for me?”

“You needn't have,” said Hatsume. “So what is this thing you want to make? Something to go with your quirk? Amplify it? Adjust it? Make it less inconvenient? Pretty sure I've got a solution to all your needs.” Her voice seemed to have relaxed a little, so maybe Minoru hadn't spoken something _too_ insulting.

“I've always been partial to some sort of a portable, remote-controlled camera drone, the smaller the better, for easy, uh... infiltration and image capture,” Minoru said. “These things can be surprisingly useful-”

“Useful? Well sure you'd think that!” said Hatsume. “So let me get this straight.” Her voice was lower than it normally was – a  _really_ scary, throaty growl. “You actually thought by waiting around in my classroom, on the  _off chance_ that I would actually show up, I'd be moved enough to make you a baby that amounts to a  _peeping machine –_ and probably break every single of Japan's privacy law in the process?”

Minoru yelped.  _I'm found out!_ Truly, a mini-surveillance drone would be like a dream come true for Minoru, or any wannabe peeping Tom at that. Not that it didn't have other uses for hero work, though!

But that was beside the matter. The real question was, how should he  _ever_ answer now that Hatsume  _knew_ ? “Uh... don't all girls love a sense of  _dedication_ ?”

Her silhouette was golf-clapping. “Ha, ha, ha. No,” she said. “Look, if I'm so into making dodgy stuff for the first people to treat me nicely I wouldn't be sitting in this _school_. Black market pays better and doesn't even bother about under-eighteen labor laws.”

At this point Minoru had halfway expected a more... physical reaction. A punch. Or a slap. Or indeed any kind of painful, painful retaliation like he'd been so used to receiving throughout his life now. More so since Hatsume was taller _and_ better-built than he was.

None of the sort came. “Nope, nope, nope,” she said instead. “But you _are_ right. It's a little... touching, having you wait around like that. So... if you need something to _help_ with your quirk that _doesn't_ have illegal applications, then let me know and maybe I could help with it instead.”

And then against all odds, _Hatsume's_ phone began to ring. Minoru heard a gasp, and saw Mei's blurry hand flicking over the lit screen.

“M-Midoriya?” she said – and gestured Minoru to _draw closer_. “That you?”

She flicked the Speaker button just in time for Minoru to hear a dry cough from the other side. _“It_ is _me last time I checked.”_ It was Midoriya's voice all right, and despite himself Minoru felt _relieved_ too. _“Where are you? What's going on there?”_

“Still on the sixth floor! Still safe and sound too!” she exclaimed. “And you? Is Uraraka with you?”

 _“The both of us, yes. Ground floor,”_ he said. _“Unused classroom near the end of the corridor. I'm pretty alright here, thanks for asking – a little shaken, though.”_ Midoriya went, and maybe it was just Mineta but wasn't his voice a little... smug? _“And yeah, O- I mean, Uraraka is here too.”_

Minoru bit his lip. The relief, apparently, was not to last. _The hell? Did he get on first-name basis with Uraraka already?_

There was a very, very long pause down there, and Minoru's brain automatically went to all sorts of nasty, not-particularly-save-for-work places. _Midoriya and Uraraka. Alone. In a dark empty classroom..._

Thankfully, neither of them didn't seem to know or care about his thought process.Hatsume, for one, was (understandably) just all over the fact that Midoriya and Uraraka were _alive_ in the first place. “How did you... how did you survive-” Hatsume breathed in hard. “I mean, how did you get out of that fall?”

_“I guess my luck still hasn't run out,”_ came the answer. Damn smooth bastard.  _“How's it going over there?”_

“Not terribly!” exclaimed Hatsume softly. “We bagged the villain! Now if only we can stay hidden until help arrives.” She was practically rubbing her hands with glee. “Hey, would you mind if we go ahead with your plan anyway? Now you guys are safe... let's set my babies on these bastards!”

Sounded like Hatsume was ever so slightly bashful too, if Minoru read her voice right. And why wouldn't she be? For all Minoru knew, Midoriya's awkwardness charm had claimed  _yet another_ victim! What was it with  _Midoriya_ that made odd girls go goggly-eyed? 

Finally he heard a sigh from the other end.  _“Goodness gracious,”_ Midoriya said. _“Well, I trust you, and though I trust your tools-”_ There was a sort-of cough. _“Well,_ babies _, slightly less, you know what you're doing, don't you? Stay out of trouble out there, alright?”_

“Will do!” exclaimed Hatsume. “Same to you two, tuck yourselves somewhere safe, okay?” “There are lots of my babies who's never seen the light of practical application! Operation Booby Trap's on the way!”

With a click and a press of a button on her phone, this very, very frightening smile came back on Hatsume's face – like a cross between a scientist and a serial killer. She put her goggles back on, and the way she glanced at Minoru made his blood freeze.

“Let's make a deal,” she said. “You help me secure this floor and keep the villains where they can be arrested easily, and when we get out of this mess I'll make you  _something_ particularly avant-garde.”

Her hand clamped down on Minoru's shoulder so hard he almost yelped.  _A tech-support girl's hands have no business being that strong!_

“F-for real?”

Hatsume snapped her finger. “Don't you _dare_ doubt my words,” she said. “You oughta keep to your commitments if you wanna find a job in the pitiless corporate world!”

Like Minoru told himself: Midoriya's awkward charm had won over  _yet another_ girl.  _The sly dog – who's next now in his conquest list?_

On the plus side, this was maybe the first time in ages he'd interacted with a girl without them being  _completely disgusted. Never mind that girl being a weird, scary, work-obsessed inventor with a questionable sense of femininity._

Mineta Minoru could live with that. For now.

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes and Fanon:
> 
> \- Once again I've had to improvise a lot on Mei's personality and hope that my extrapolation hadn't been too far off. Her canon personality is best summed up as workaholic and passionate (although in a different way compared to, say, Izuku's passion, or Katsuki's passion, or even Ochako's passion). I can't imagine her having too many friends, and while in canon she doesn't mind it very much, she also never really had an opportunity to make friends who were her peers. The person who appreciates her most on a daily basis in canon is a teacher and we all know the Japanese/Asian model of your elders and authority figures being so socially superior that they aren't supposed to be your friend friend at all. I think it's therefore suitable to imply that she would very much care about those who would actually have her in their circle... which is exactly what happened here.
> 
> (On that note, Mineta x Mei when?)
> 
> \- There's some characterization improvisation to a lesser extent for Ochako as well: She's kind, caring, quite smart, particularly passionate and has a lot more mettle and wisdom than your average shonen female lead. I translate this as her keeping (relative) cool at the improbability of her circumstance, and her surprising optimism (to Izuku's pleasant surprise)
> 
> \- A third, much lesser, improvisation was Bilbo's relatively harsh reaction to... pretty much everything Ori did. This is the factors I considered while writing him: (i) He wasn't there when Izuku and Ori got their moment together, and therefore didn't know (as well as Izuku does) that Ori is a very atypical dwarf; (ii) He is very driven by concern, not only for Izuku and Ochako but for Ori as well, and as a dwarf in the modern world Ori might as well be a walking disaster waiting to happen; and (iii) He still doesn't know what had happened, be it to him and Ori, or to U.A. and Tokyo in particular, and therefore is a lot more finicky than he normally is.
> 
> \- This chapter provides some additional hints on the nature of Izuku's actual quirk. More clues shall be dropped as we go further on. Watch this space! Besides, without any real spoiler, we might get to see the Ring within two chapters!


	23. Interlude: Those Who Would Be Heroes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off: I am so very very sorry for the delay. This was caused by near-unbearable stress in real life and actual difficulties with this chapter. There's also the fact that what I intended to be chapter 22 had to be split into two because of how long it was: this half alone was more than 7000 words!
> 
> I expect this chapter to be still slightly rough-around-the-edges. As such, more comments and criticisms are welcome even more than usual!
> 
> Once again, my apologies, and thanks to all of you for the overwhelming support, both here and on other sites! (5K hits? I certainly didn't see that coming!)

**CHAPTER 21.5**

**INTERLUDE: THOSE WHO WOULD BE HEROES**

 

Ashido Mina had woken up that Friday with many exciting plans. Dragging her new friends shopping was one of those. Being dragged shopping by her new friends was another too. Doubly good because it was supposed to involve Hagakure (who had declared her a new best friend) or Jirou (whom she quite wanted to induct into her _new and exciting_ high-school circle).

Mina wasn't one to let her plans go unfulfilled. It wasn't easy to persuade Jirou to tag along. “Well, I don't want to impose,” had been her answer for most of the week. 

Mina had knew she'd say that, and of course she hadn't let Jirou's politeness get into the way of having fun: Because she knew too well how hard it was to be an outlier. And outliers ought to stick together, so they wouldn't be outliers any more. “What's wrong with imposing?” had been her statement. “We're friends, aren't we? Isn't _imposing_ what friends do?”

Then again, physically dragging the metalhead along helped, too, which was exactly what Mina and Hagakure had done.

All in all, it had been a _very_ successful shopping trip. Hagakure's invisible hands were swinging around two shopping bags – one full of snacks and accessories and the other packed with several books. Mina was sporting a new hoodie – bought at discount. And Jirou was smiling and cracking jokes too, and it was all worth it.

Her smile only faded as they crossed a _very_ large musical store. Her footing at once slowed to a crawl, her eyes staring at the neon sign that spelled out, 「ザ・ブラインド・バールド・ス・オウン」- “ _The Blind Bards' Own_ ”. As if it wasn't obvious yet who the shop-owner's inspiration was, at the storefront there was a large cardboard cutout of a German-looking rocker in the middle of a riffing frenzy. In other words, not a place a popular high-school girl would be caught _dead_ in half a mile of.

Mina drew a quick breath. _Now or never._

She tapped Jirou on the shoulder. “Hey, what are you waiting for?”

Jirou blinked. “Uh, eh... I mean, nothing, just curious, is all-”

Mina put her foot down. “I mean,” she said, “why _aren't_ you jumping in there and grabbing all the goodies yet?”

Jirou's eyebrows twitched. “Uh-” She looked around at nobody in particular. “Are you sure-”

“Hey, hey, don't worry!” She patted Jirou on the shoulder. “We're friends, right? No judging – you heard me, Hagakure!” She clapped her hands. “Tell you what, we'll escort you in!”

“And shield you from prying eyes with our own body!” Hagakure added. The last bit, ridiculousness and all did the trick: Jirou started giggling into her palm.

“No regrets?” she asked back.

“None at all,” said Mina, and pulled her into the place.

It was a very large musical store. Its signs had crossed Mina's eyes at one point or another, but entering it was another thing entirely. The place hosted, granted, less ridiculous of a company than downtown Akihabara, but only just. Every other person had a tattoo, every third person a messy mane of long hair, and every fourth some odd mannerism of one kind or another. Nobody was smoking, but there was the distinct smell of tobacco in the air. Even the storekeepers looked less like salarymen or part-timers and more like a crowd Mr. Aizawa would have no trouble fitting in. The only person looking like they didn't belong was a young mother with her sleeping baby strapped to her back – but there was such a spark on her face as she strolled past the guitar section Mina thought there was no way she _wasn't_ a retired rocker or something.

Jirou's shyness evaporated in five second approximately. She nearly broke into a run towards the guitar side, where the mother was standing. There were sparks in her eyes as she stared long at the row of lacquered instruments.

“We've lost her, Ashido!” said Hagakure.

A terribly nerdy " _yare yare daze"_ left Mina's lips. “Always knew this was going to happen,” she said.

And then everything went _off the rocker._

First there was a flash. Then there was a bang. Andthen there was the silhouette of something exceedingly large and monstrous just _charging_ into the store. The deal was sealed by a very loud scream from the middle of the store.

At once Mina found herself caught in a small stampede. Shouts and screams and pounding footsteps rang about her ears – Hagakure's squeaks were drowned out in the cacophony. When the crowding stopped and Mina felt the less stuffy air outside the stall,

“Where's Jirou?”

“O-over there!”

Mina gasped. Jirou was caught inside the kiosk along with half a dozen less fortunate mall-goers: two men, three women, and the nursing mother and her baby. One of the men were knocked down on the floor, not moving under the feet of an astonishingly large humanoid crab.

“Villain attack?”

Indeed it was. The villains were three: One was a punk wearing torn jeans and a headphone for ears, holding an old pistol in each hand. The second was less of a punk, though not by much: he too wore a pair of headphones – clashing horribly with his otherwise well-ironed suit. The last was the crab in human form: pincers for arms and thick carapace covering everything from his waist to his head.

Jirou's ear-jack was firmly planted in the ground... and no sound came out. In fact, Mina was quite sure the baby was crying all the time – soundlessly. The silence was eerie: the baby looked vaguely like he was miming or yawning.

And then Torn Jean whipped his head about, at Jirou's general direction. “Hey, hey, hey, no screaming, no crying, no making pointless noises, I said!” he said, his head bobbing along the music still playing on the store's PA system. He lowered his head a bit closer to Jirou. “It's for your own good, beautiful, heh heh heh.”

Didn't take a genius to tell either the headphone guy or the crab guy had a quirk that nullified sounds. That was the easy part. The hard part was, of course, how they were going to break Jirou out of that mess.

Hagakure's parka sleeves were flailing in Mina's general direction. “We've got to do something!”

“I'm thinking!” Except thinking had never been Mina's strong suit. “Hey, you big and strong men are just going to stand there, are you?”

“What, you crazy, girl?” exclaimed an oh-so-impressive chap wearing too many rings with a tattoo on his arm. “That's three villains! That's three more than we can deal with!”

“Besides that would be breaking the law!” said another long-haired metalhead with a thick faux-European accent. “A-and it isn't like ours is any useful quirk-”

“That's right, folks!” Torn Jean's voice echoed from inside the shop. “Just going to make a premiere here for me and my bros.” He clapped his hands to the chorus of the song playing on the PA system. “Don't worry, nobody would be hurt if only you nice people do as you're told!”

Mina pushed and shoved her way to the front of the crowd. “What the hell do you _want_?” she cried. “Let my friend go, or-” 

Old Suit moonwalked to the store front. “What's this? A loud-mouthed pinky little darling?” he said. “Ooh, lemme ask, pinky, you, and whose grand army?”

Mina gritted her teeth. “The heroes are coming any time now!” she shouted. “Don't think you can get away with taking hostages!”

“Hey, hey, that's fine to us if they do show,” said Torn Jeans. “Y'see, girl, we ain't murderers. Disturber of the peace, well, maybe, but all street performers kind of _are_ by definition. There are worse sorts going out there in town, now _that's_ the murderous peeps.” He performed an over-exaggerated bow. “That's what we are - performers, without a very good stage. All we want is make our own stage, that's all we're doing here! The bigger the act, the better the attendance, the more the payoff!”

“Payoff?” Mina exclaimed. “Is that why are you doing this? Money?”

Torn Jean scoffed. “Surprise, dear, food on the table works amazing for creativity,” he said. “And some fun too while we're at it. This society doesn't give enough respect to good, honest, non-mainstream musician struggling to entertain!”

“Besides, dear, gotta agree _hostage_ is such an ugly word,” said Old Suit. “We call it _compelling attendance_. Come the heroes we'll let them go peaceably, promise!”

The crab villain waved his great claws about. “What, no kill?” He yawned. “Crabby bored.”

“Another day, bro,” Torn Jean made a hushing sound. “As for today-”

“Today's a special deal,” said Old Suit. “We're asked to host a small performance of, oh, thirty minutes, payment guaranteed. Or as long as it takes for them heroes to show, that is, we're fine with whatever. Good that we've got an audience and a pretty good bouncer too – long as he keeps his claw where we can see it.” He nodded at Crab-Face, and then winked at Mina. “So, my dear pretty, want a dance? I mean so long as we can keep the show rolling we'll get paid anyway-”

Torn Jean, too, nudged his head at Jirou's direction. “Oh, and the pretty metalhead over here, your friend?” he said. “Always good to have a fellow musician along the show – except she isn't the vocalist in this one. More like part of the accompaniment.”

 _Are these guys serious?_ But the thought passed as soon as it came. _It doesn't matter! Silly or not they_ are _holding hostages!_

He flicked his finger, and Jirou's voice boomed. “That's not what musicians are supposed to do! We're supposed to entertain and... and not do harm to society! Payment, recognition... does that even matter?”

Torn Jean blinked. “Okay?” he said. “That's, like, your opinion, dearie.” _Flick_. Away went Jirou's voice.

Old Suit clicked his tongue. “Hey, no offense, girl, but don't think we don't recognize your clothes,” he drawled. “U.A. student, eh? Bah, like we don't know you posers are in it for the fame and the money. Not an ounce of _real artistic merit_.” He drew out his every word. “I'd tell you to get the _fuck_ out of this music store, but that wouldn't make for a very persuasive performance, now would it? So... stay, I guess. Stay and watch.”

Then he turned up the store's music and began... singing?

Not the time or place, but theirs wasn't actually a _bad_ performance. Torn Jeans was pulling off a pretty good bassline, while Old Suit actually had a nice warm tenor that didn't match the situation at all. Every muscle on Jirou's face was twitching, and could Mina blame her? The situation was as frightening as it was ridiculous.

Five minutes had passed. Or perhaps ten? All Mina knew was that the villains were in the middle of the third song when the ground _quaked._

“This is Ingenium Squad A!” cried a steelclad voice. “Go, go, go!”

A torrent of _things_ happened at once. An explosion rocked the surrounding. The light went out. Bubbles and smoke and a bright flash filled Mina's eyes. Shouts. Screams. Crackling air. 

Mina looked up to find the backside of the store had been blown open. In through a breach at the back of the mall crashed a team of professional heroes in full costume getup. 

Old Suit was the first to go: a tall, armored pro hero hero crashed into him and sent him bowling over. Then came Torn Jean's turn as a handcuff flew by and hit his wrist with pinpoint precision – while he was still rubbing his eyes. Everything took less than five seconds.

But the crab villain was still awake and kicking. He roared, and with a mighty charge swiped aside the two heroes charging his way. The one was sent tumbling out of the kiosk, the other hit the wall with a solid thud. Then the roar turned into a dry growl; he rushed towards the nearest victim – which happened to be the mother and her baby.

At once Jirou's earphones flew forth. Its steel-like tips pierced through his claw-shell with a satisfying _crunch_.

Mina covered her gasp. “Jirou, don't!”

The warning fell on deaf ears. Mina widened her eyes in horror as her new friend crashed into the crab villain... and succeeded in maybe tickling him. Tackling a giant of a man with her small schoolgirl frame was decidedly not Jirou's wisest decision.

What else could Mina do but watch helplessly as the villain grabbed both of Jirou's earphones in his claws? “Jirou!” she cried.

The crab villain harrumphed. “One more step, Crabby kills!”

The hero in charge, armored from top to toe in stylized plate armor with protruding exhaust tubes, now stepped to the fore. “End of the line, villain!” he exclaimed. “You're letting her go right now, or-”

Laughter gurgled in the villain's throat. “Crabby not afraid to kill!”

But then a _teehee_ broke out behind the villain. “Oooh, are you now, Mr. Crab?”

Mina's head jerked. _Hagakure?_

Indeed it was her: behind the crab villain there was a pair of pink-orange shoes without anything above it. She'd taken off all her clothes while nobody was looking – except her shoes.

“Show yourself!” he bellowed.

“I can't, well, obviously!” Hagakure said. “I'm the wind, see, see, see?”

Hagakure's voice was shivering – so, so unlike her usual self. obviously didn't know very well what she was doing. Not that the villain necessarily knew: His bulging eyes twitched, his rigid neck swaying about as much as his carapace allowed. Confused, maybe, perhaps frightened even.

“G-got a pretty good song, yeah, if you care to listen!” she said. “Learnt it from a cute green-haired darling.” Mina could almost _hear_ the lightbulb flickering on in her voice. “Y-you love songs, right? That's why you're in these people's company, right?”

If Ingenium was bewildered at all, he was only so for a blink of an eye. Mina saw him nudging his head just slightly at the general direction of one of his sidekick – a girl wearing a turban and an Arabian-looking veiled robe. “ _Mirage_ ,” he said, and spoke no more.

Meanwhile, Hagakure was trying to just _talk_. “L-like I said, I'm the wind, I'm here to stay,” she said.

In front of them, the hero was standing absolutely still. His unseen face did little to inspire confidence or relief.

“H-hey, sir?” Her voice trembled. “C-could you please do something about this?”

All she got in return was a tug on the arm. It was the Arabian-skirt heroine, her hand gripped tightly around her shoulder. “Faith,” she said.

Now the crab villain was decidedly confused. He was backing, and backing, and backing off some more away from both Hagakure's voice and the heroes' general direction.

Obviously Hagakure was _frightening_ him about as much as the hero was.

“ _The other door!_ ” she mouthed at Hagakure's general direction.

Hagakure got her note: off she went, humming a ridiculous-sounding, off-tune and . Artistic merit didn't matter – what mattered was that the villain was backing _out_ of the store, away from every other hostage.

Finally the villain left the cover of the store for good, backing out into the concourse proper. _Gotcha!_

Before Mina could draft up a new course of action, she heard something akin to a small  _boom_ further behind the villain. “Don't forget, villain,” went a thundering voice. “Heroes  _always_ find a way!” 

It was Ingenium's voice _._ Mina had heard it voice before her eyes caught a blazing exhaust jet – not from the side, not from the front, not from the back, but from  _above_ the villain _._

It didn't matter _how_. The _fwoom_ she heard was the best sound in years. Ingenium had vaulted like a swallow, and in a dazzling descent came crashing on the villain's back. The villain's shell cracked and crumbled and _collapsed_ in one fell swoop. His grip fell limp; Jirou staggered free from the villain's grip, and fell into Ingenium's outstretched arms.

There he stood, in shining armor beneath the flickering light of dusk, the would-be villains in a heap before him. “Restrain them!” he said, and it was done.

Only then did Mina notice the motionless Ingenium standing in front of her had long crumbled into nothing. “H-how did-”

“That's why I have sidekicks,” he said. “Mirages only work when you aren't looking straight.”

If Mina would forget everything that day, there was one thing she could not: that of Ingenium standing before the three of them when the nasty business was over. His face was concealed behind steel, but his smile was so audible his helmet might have as well not been there.

“You did good, girls.”

***

Fire.

Shouto never liked fire very much. Not when it streamed from his fingertip against his will, not when the _bastard old man_ wreathed it around himself like a crown. Not when the heat reminded him of that scar on his face and how it came to be. 

And certainly not when it was raging about the train he was riding, down in a tunnel somewhere beneath Tokyo.

The train had long stopped, stuck deep inside a tunnel blocked on one end by several tons of conjured rocks and the other by a blazing wall of fire.

It was pandemonium. There were screams and sobs and people trying to break out of the train. Some were trying to smash the windows open, by emergency hammers or by their quirks. Others were running; others still were crying or screaming – or, like the old man next to Shouto, praying to a distant Almighty.

Shouto's head spun. Everything about him, the people shouting and screaming and trying to call _anyone_ faded into a screen of white noise. _Panic_ was the first item on his mind. The second, naturally, was, _would it be justified if he used his quirk right then and right there_? It would be, right? It was life and death, right? People's lives were at stake, right? That was what _being a hero_ was all about, right, to do the _right_ thing no matter what?

But what could he do? Being stuck in a train with so many people about... didn't lend itself so well to his tower of ice. if he didn't do it just right he would do more harm than he could solve.

Shouto was still measuring his options when at the end of the train someone managed to smash open part of the glass. Except the black smoke wrapped around the train began to stream through that very opening, and at once the coughing and wheezing started. That part of Shouto that shivered and froze every time smoke wafted out from the family dojo seized him.

 _You are afraid_.

And why would he not be? That fire and smoke frightened him, and not because they were a threat to his life. Because every child who hated his parent as much as Shouto did was afraid of that parent long before it turned into hatred. Fire and blaze and the person it represented were _threats_ , not just to himself but everyone and anyone he had loved.

Todoroki Shouto might be exceptional, but he was a teenager still and prone to fear. So he stood there, frozen in his own confusion, at once not knowing what to do, where to go... who to help.

_What kind of hero-in-training am I then?_

_“Smoke, smoke, smoke the rat, smoke the mice, bacon's nice”_

The voice over the PA system was hysteric and half-crazed, punctuated with fits of laughter. 

And then the corner of his eyes caught something that didn't quite add up: there, on the seat row next to him, was a man wearing a hygiene mask sitting perfectly still. His eyes were closed, his hands clasped, his legs crossed, as if all the sobbing and screaming and crying about him mattered not a lick, nor did the thick smoke snaking and wrapping around his seat.

_Asleep? Unconscious? Dead? No, he would have collapsed..._

There was something oddly familiar about his posture; Shouto could swear he'd seen the fellow somewhere before. Perhaps long, long back, when his face was still without scars and heroes on TV were still a thing of marvel.

Then the stranger finally stirred. He sniffed the air; his brow twitched in disgust, like the lethally thick smoke was only a minor annoyance. 

“Heh, got the _rat_ part right, the fucker,” he said. “So irritating.”

He glanced at Shouto, and his brow lifted just one tiny bit. “Hey, kid,” he said. “U.A. student?”

“... Yeah.”

He gestured Shouto to edge closer. “Do you-” His voice was raspy and not at all on the friendly side. “-want to be a hero?”

Shouto could feel his shoulders tense up. “Who's asking?”

“Just an _un_ concerned, no-good punk,” The man cast a sideways glance at the pushing and shoving and shouting around them, then back at Shouto. “Now, do you want to be a _hero_?” he asked again.

For a second Shouto froze. But only for a second – for the answer had never been under question.

_Yes._

_I want to be a hero._

_I want to be something other than what_ he  _is._

His head nodded once before he knew what he was doing.

The stranger stood up and yawned; covering his mouth with one hand and placing the other on the glass window behind him. A jet of blue flame at once shot forth from his palm and blasted the glass apart.  _Another fire quirk user?_ That surprised him none at all, for some reason, like it was just so  _natural_ that this person would have that quirk..

Then the stranger tucked both hands into his jacket pockets and threw a glance in Shouto's direction. “Follow on,” he said, and leaped out of the opening, hands still in his jacket pocket – taking for granted, perhaps, that Shouto would do as he said.

At once reason and tact left him. He vaulted after the creepy stranger like a man possessed.

He held his breath, hid his cough behind his palm and pretended his eyes weren't watering. It was all so natural: the old man had never quite tolerated any reaction of his to _fire_ that wasn't _embrace it like your life depends on it._

“Ay ay ay! Can't have you interrupt the BBQ party, can we?”

There, near the debris, a duo of villains had set up camp next to what could only be described as an oversized bonfire. The first villain, wearing a shirt with the kanji for “fire” on it, was making like a fire-eater and blowing flame and smog out of his nostrils. The other, wearing a matching shirt on which “earth” written, was turning the solid ground into pools of magma with a touch of his palm. Both were cackling like they'd lost their collective mind. Or maybe they had, Shouto couldn't tell.

“Stop laughing,” he said. “Pathetic. Irritating.”

“Oooh, and who's judging?” The 'Earth' villain raised a wagging middle finger. “A punk trying to impress?”

Only now did Shouto notice the man's jeans was dirty and his jacket frayed all over. Briefly the wounded six-year-old in him, who had never quite vanished since _that_ day, regretted coming along with such an obviously up-to-no-good sort of person.

But not for long.

Because the stranger wasn't amused at all. “Not here to talk,” he said, and took one slow step after another towards the villains. “

The 'Earth' villain guffawed. “Watch out, watch out!” he said. “How 'bout we feed you some KFC? Kentucky Fried Crazy?”

Now the man was within five yards of the 'Fire' villain. Suddenly his slow steps broke into a sprint: he darted at the villain like an arrow in flight.

The villain roared with laughter. “Look at that, the idiot really has a death wish!”

Then he flung his arms forth. A barrage of dark flame roared about him, and coalesced into a continuous jet like a huge blowtorch. Shouto stood aback: from the distance it looked almost like it was one of _the bastard old man_ 's performances again. 

“Hmph.”

This, after all, was the difference between the second best hero in Japan and a random punk: his barrage only went on for two seconds and was more smoke than fire. When the flame faded, all that remained was a mass of smoke... from behind which the stranger emerged, virtually untouched. The flame had done jack-all to stop him – and not entirely because of the villain's incompetence. He had weaved himself under and between the jets of flame so artfully – like he'd spent all his life playing with fire.

Indeed the only thing the barrage managed to accomplish was to tear the hygiene mask from his face. At once it became obvious why he had that mask on in the first place: the face beneath was utterly hideous. His entire lower jaw was burnt and leathery and barely held on to the rest of his face by an ugly, patchwork application of stitches. _All his life playing with fire all right._

Now he was within an arm's length of the villain and that was all that mattered. “So irritating.” His voice hardly changed.

The would-be villain could only take one step back, throwing his arm aside and gathered another jet of fire. “Why you-”

The glint from the stranger's eyes made Shouto's blood freeze. “What a waste of good quirks.” His stitched jaw barely moved at all. “Farewell.”

Shouto heard a  _fwoom_ and saw a flash.

“W-what the hel _aaaaaargh_ !”

The scream  _melted_ into the roaring jet of blue flame. When the flame disappeared, all that remained of the villain was a vaguely human-shaped mass of charcoal, twisted and black and smoking.

“The fuck?”

The magma-wielding villain stepped back. The laughter vanished from his voice. “You- you murdered me bro!”

Leatherface was standing there, hands tucked back inside his pocket. “Fire-users who don't know what they're doing,” he said. “Hate them.”

With a scream the villain slammed both hands on the ground. At his touch a portion of the ground melted into red-hot magma. Rocks and gravel boiled and bubbled, then rose in a crimson wave rolling towards the stranger. It could have been a mirage, but Shouto could swear the stranger's eyes just hardened in great alarm.

_What will you do, Todoroki Shouto?_

His left foot stomped on the ground before he could think. A wave of cold slashed across the ground at a diagonal angle and intercepted the magma stream – there was a solid crash as boiling rock and freezing ice met.

What happened next? What happened next was _sorry, but our level are too far apart._

The stream of molten rock halted, and the air around them cooled instead of heated up. Sheets of frost lined the tunnel's walls and ceiling. Ice surged over the bubbling magma – and there it was, the _Todoroki Wunderkind_ 's signature. Shouto's tower of ice was far smaller than normal, and shaky at its base, for lava weren't an easy thing to freeze into a block and virtually evaporated much of his ice in the process. His great ice wall only reached halfway to the ceiling, but this once it was a good thing. Behind it, the stranger was winding up for a leap.

The stranger vaulted onto the spire of melting ice and cooling magma. He landed on the tip with his hands, then launched himself over like a gymnast.

In a blink of an eye the villain's fury turned into fright: his eyes and mouth opened wide.

Blue flame blazed from the stranger's palms, both stretched open, and fell on the villain like a blue curtain. If there was a scream Shouto did not hear it very well inside the conflagration. Or perhaps his subconscious had decided not to remember it.

Such was how the moment Todoroki Shouto indirectly murdered someone came to pass. A scream he could forget, being so used to all kinds of shouts and bellowing in his life. A flash of fire consuming a man, well, that was a little harder to erase from his mind, and he wasn't even a stranger to such callous disposal of villains. There was only a flash of bright blue streaming from above, and a scream, and the smell of flesh carbonizing, and then all was quiet and still but for the residual flames crackling.

Shouto could only stand, and watch, and tried not to breath too hard. Opposite to him, locking eyes with him, stood the stranger. He yawned; like the whole business had only managed to bore him. The immediate silence was suffocating, more so than the stench of charred human flesh.

“Good one, kid,” the stranger said.

Shouto shook his head. _There is nothing_ good _about it._ “You killed them,” he said, matter-of-factly – for want of anything more consequential to say.

“Yeah,” said the stranger, equally matter-of-factly. “Don't blame me. You know _he_ would have roasted such sort of crazy idiots without much remorse – if any.”

A 'tch' escaped Shouto's throat. “What are you talking about?”

The stranger shrugged one shoulder. “Oh, you know what I mean all right,” he said. “You are Endeavor's son, aren't you?”

Shouto blinked. _What? How did he-_ “I...”

But the stranger only waved his hand. “No need to answer,” he said. “Tell you what, go home and tell your bastard of a father _some pretty cool guy_ already did his job for him.” He turned around, facing away from Shouto now. “If you feel up to it, ask him how it feels to be one-upped by a-” He raised two fingers in an air-quote. “ _no-good punk_.”

“Wait!” he cried, “Who are you?”

The stranger was beginning to walk off. “Just a bored guy with a little too much time on hand. As opposed to a _hero_ hero,” He waved his hand above his head. “Why don't you keep it up,” he said. “and we'll meet again soon enough.”

“Where... are you going?”

“Need to even ask? To where there's less smoke and corpse gas, of course.”

It would be a long, long time till Shouto would forget the smell of death or the flash of blue flames. Or the mask-like lower jaw, burnt and leathery and full of stitches. Or those eyes full of disdain and hatred – eyes that were familiar in a way, no less, like his own but different.

Or the question that echoed in his head, like the wind howling in a tunnel full of smoke and flame and death.

_Do you want to be a hero, Todoroki Shouto?_ Or, even more importantly,  _why do you want to be a hero so badly?_

***

Katsuki's first reaction to the TV broadcast was unsurprisingly explosive. Not literally – even in his building rage he knew Kamui Woods would evict him from his office and his mentorship alike, had he triggered even half a blast in his office.

He did, however, stand up from the table with such force the chair fell backwards behind him with a deafening _thud_.

“The _fuckers-_ ” he muttered. His thought was singular: _Get out there and do some damage_ ; he was just about to make for the door when at once he felt a heavy, woody palm on his shoulder.

“Stop right there, young man,” went Kamui's surprisingly calm and unsurprisingly stern voice. “Where do you think you're going?”

Katsuki bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. _Must control self. Must control self. Must control self._

This time the mantra didn't work half as well as it should have. In hindsight all he needed to do was not to say anything – because once he had started he couldn't stop. What he ended up saying was characteristically incriminating. 

“Where else? Where the hell else? I'm _murderizing_ these bastards!”

Kamui's wooden fingers squeezed hard. “Not on  _my_ watch you aren't murdering anything!”

“Really? Really?” Katsuki tossed a downright hateful look at the plate of snacks on the table. “And do what, sit here munching cookies while the whole city's on fire out there?”

Kamui waved his other hand. At once it turned into a net of woody, thorny branches shooting forth right in front of Katsuki's face.

“Why don't you _sit the hell down_ ,” he exclaimed, “and listen for once?”

For the first time in his life, someone was swearing  _at_ Katsuki and he wasn't retaliating in kind. He didn't know how long he had been standing there, slack-jawed and so, so confused. The clock might have struck once, maybe twice – thrice even. 

“What the bloody s- excrement on a stick shall I do then, huh?”

It was, surprisingly, a sincere question: how was Katsuki supposed to react to that sort of news? Sit back and twiddle his thumb like the once-upon-a-time-quirkless Deku would have done, in the faith that some heroes would show up and clean up the mess? Of course they would appear sooner or later, but wasn't _Katsuki_ supposed to lend himself to this kind of crisis too?

But who was he kidding? Of course he was not supposed to show up at a crisis point gun blazing, so the law said. Yet there had always been that burning passion within him, like a fire underground: the hope that a villain would attack close to home enough for him to shine. Wasn't that how the best and strongest heroes were forged? In the flames of actual crisis rather than in an academy?

_Any villain would do. Any that wouldn't get the jump on me like that slime fucker._

But Kamui's answer was only a solid glare, and at once Katsuki felt  _cold_ . The pro hero who never showed his mouth was squaring what seemed to be his jaw. 

Now the hand on Katsuki's shoulder wrenched him around to face the TV. Katsuki's eyebrows jittered at the broadcast: A good chunk of the city was on fire while the normally bubbly-looking reporter was putting on her most anxious face. The newsflash read, “MOST SERIOUS VILLAIN ATTACK IN YEARS”. There was footage from above, of the U.A. barrier with a hole punched through, and then a number of other places full of fire and smoke and people running amok.

It was like that time of crisis well before he was born all over again.

“Hey, Kamui! I'm freaking asking!”

Kamui's hand still had not leave Katsuki's shoulders. “I said  _listen_ .”

And just on time too: the screen was now showing a reporter sporting an insect-like pair of complex eyes against the background of the shopping district in Shinjuku.

“ _... we've got several reports of average citizens attempting to fight the villains with their own quirks. So far-”_ His many eyes began darting around the various documents in his hand. _“there have been five killed in the act and about a dozen severely injured. Of particular note, a citizen's use of a water quirk caused unintentional localized flooding in Kouriban Ward, severely hindering rescue efforts.”_

The screen flashed to a montage of shaky and blurry footage of more chaos. Fire. Smoke. Siren. Shouts. Hollers. Screams. People running about. 

_“Dantouin Ward recorded at least one casualty in the act of vigilantism. Here's the footage provided by a helpful bystander-”_

Then the screen shifted to a duel in the middle of some street between a random villain and a  _concerned citizen._ Only unlike a hero – villain fight, it ended with the wannabe eating a face full of rocks and thrust into a nearby wall, not getting up.

The remaining commentary sounded like white noise to Katsuki's ears. Something something police something something lawbreaking something something _serious repercussion_.

_“Mokugeki Tameki, reporting from Shinjuku._ ”

Kamui punctuated the conclusion of the report by slamming the remote on the table. “You hear that? Saw that? You want to be a hero? The idiots are making our work harder! Then learn how  _not_ to be a burden first!”

“Tch-”

Just then Kamui's phone rang. With a frown on his face Kamui pressed the button, and at once Katsuki thought he heard the ghost of a very familiar feminine voice on the other end.

“ _What's taking you so long, Kamui?_ ” she said. Contrary to her normal self she made no attempt to joke – or flirt.

“Just a moment, I'm taking care of something,” he said quickly – and apologetically. “Could I impose on you for just a little longer, Takeyama? I'm on it in a moment!”

“ _You'd better!_ ” she demanded. “ _Ten minutes. Musutafu Station. Get on it!_ ” And she then hung up.

On his part Kamui shoved the phone into his pocket, turned around Katsuki, and threw him a blood-freezing glare.

“You heard me,” he said, “ _Stay right here_ .” 

“Or else,” went unsaid but perfectly understood. Then he left the room and slammed the door behind him.

At once the air in the room and the noise from the TV thickened; Katsuki like all the oxygen in his lung had turned into gel and all his blood turned into magma. An explosion went off in his palm before Katsuki knew what he was doing.

“FUCK ALL OF YOU SHITHEADS!” he cried, and felt like his all veins were popping on the spot. 

Perchance he still had his wit about him not to direct the blast at any furniture in the room. The damage he had done was limited to the smell of singed hair – _his own_ hair. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn't so useless at controlling his own anger. 

Then Katsuki drew a deep long breath full of the smell of ash. He picked up the chair, set it back at the table, and then threw himself down at it with such force it very nearly broke under him. Whatever the case, Katsuki had sat down and – more importantly – _calmed_ down.

“Go die in a fucking fire,” he muttered under his breath at the footage on the television. 

_Learn how not to be a burden_... _Damn it._

***

Bavarian Fire Drill.

Noun.

An internet-era slang referring to the act of ordering people about in a so-called emergency and creating a feedback loop of authority where none exist before. An act of _social engineering_ that altogether had no place in civilized, constitutional society effectively run by the law, heroes and the Japanese Way.

Which was to say, not something Tenya Iida would condone, much less approve. Much less partake in.

That would have been the case had he not been where he was.

The situation: He was at the train station. He was waiting for his train. He was looking forward to a good weekend – and that meant training and studying and reading. It wasn't going to be a comfortable ride; but then what form of public transport was?

And then disaster struck.

Tenya didn't know when the first people started running. He couldn't see what they were running away _from_. But he could hear the alarm, and within moments he was caught in a stampede in the making. All it took was someone to cry “The train line's on fire!” for half a thousand commuters to make like bees in a broken hive.

Tenya Iida's first lesson as a boy had always been, 'serve society and stand at its vanguard'. He was built like a wall and could run like a train, and had a night-unbreakable will (or so he always told himself) and a voice always speaking in earnest support of law and order.

Not of much use in a supposed stampede, were they?

Except, of course, if he could somehow turn everything he had into authority of a sort.

Tenya would not break the law. Didn't mean he couldn't _bend_ it. 

_Bavarian Fire Drill._

Grited his teeth, clenched his fist and leaped to the top of the ticket booth. “Stop right there, citizens!” His voice boomed like thunder across the clear sky. “This is Tenya Iida, from U.A. Academy speaking on behalf of social order! The heroes are coming soon!  In the meantime we should do well to maintain the peace! We have to fulfill our duties as _citizens_ and act accordingly!”

For a second it did not seem he would work. His voice was drowned out still by screams and shouts, and those closest to him did halt for a little – but only to throw him dirty looks before resuming their pushing and shoving again.

“Silly fuck,” he heard someone say, and at once his heart sank.

But then he saw – and heard – a very heavy iron foot slamming on the ticket counter

“Yeah, you heard the man! The famous Tenya Iida, unanimously voted Class Representative and manliest hero-in-the-making of this batch!”

“Yeah, better do what he says! Tell you what, we're all U.A. students here, next best thing from actual heroes themselves!”

The voices startled Tenya so much he almost broke the facade. Was that... Kaminari? And Kirishima? And yes, just there in the crowd he saw a mass of unruly red hair and an equally unruly blond and black mass And what was this deal about being class representative? The voting hadn't even _begun_ yet! 

Regardless, the sound of the counter crunching and lightning cracking very definitely caught more attention than his voice alone. Now more people stopped, and the derisive looks turned into mutters and eyes darting about in confusion.

Then a long, slick tongue lashed out into the air and latched on the ceiling. Up launched a very familiar looking figure, small and frog-like, clinging to the ceiling with her palm.

“They speak the truth, _kero,_ ” she said. “Please, everyone! Do what he says!”

_Asui? When had she got there?_

And _then_ came a very loud static, followed by an even louder, thundering voice. A section of the crowd parted as a girl, tall and regal in her uniform, marched through with a bullhorn in her hand.

“This is Yaoyorozu Momo, heiress to Yaoyorozu Industries, speaking! I implore you to listen and keep calm!”

_Yaoyorozu, too? What day is it today that everyone's converging here?_

Tenya shook his head quickly. The _how_ didn't matter. What mattered was that between the five of them they'd got the basics of a Bavarian fire drill down to the tee. And it wasn't even _fake_ authority he was banking on: Yaoyorozu was indeed the heiress to her family business, and they were all indeed U.A. students who'd proven their worth through a grueling exam and had the uniform to show. Perhaps that was why they had designed their school uniform to look so much like a paramilitary organization's.

 _Now_ it was working: the people closer to him was slowing down now, and the jeering stopped. The silence spread, and soon much of the chaos had faded away. But now all eyes were on him, as if waiting for some sort of order and instruction; Tenya could feel the pressure on every inch of his person.

But he drew a breath and looked straight ahead. He buried all semblances of nervousness deep inside: Because this was what they were meant to be – as the pillars of heroism in a society that always needed it.

 _This is what I was_ born _to do._

“Hey, you there, ticketman!” he shouted. “Keep the doors open. You there, in white! Stay right where you are – let the woman there pass first! You, lady in the black hoodie, you're next, get in line! Hurry along now!”

One thing could be said about the Iida clan: none of them had a small voice. Tenya was doing all he could to capitalize on it.

“Exit's that way to the right! Two at a time, in good order! I'm keeping my eyes on you!” His head flicked towards Yaoyorozu. “Yaoyorozu, get me some flags or signal lights!”

She nodded. “On it!” In two seconds flat she was hoisting a white banner that had ' _Evacuation'_ printed on it in large red letters, and hurled it at Tenya. “Catch!” She then threw two signal lights at Kaminari. “Light this up somewhere everyone can see, will you?”

“Yes, yes, right away, Your Ladyship,” he said with a mock-hurt smile across his face. Thunder arced between his fingers. Then he shuffled off to the foot of the stairway, apparently pleased with his looking like a human Christmas tree, gesturing wildly as scores of people passed by him.

On his part Tenya tossed the banner at Asui's general position. “Asui, carry this flag to the exit where everyone can see it! Remember, children, the handicapped and the elderly first, in that order!”

Asui grabbed the flag with her lashing tongue. “Got it, _kero_.” she said, hopping along the banister ahead of the crowd. At once she set about hoisting the flag at the top of the stairway.

Slowly, steadily, bit by bit, the chaotic mass of commuters formed up into a line. The large crowd exited the station. Much bad things could be said about the Japanese propensity to so quickly fall into order when an authority figure presented themselves. This day was not one of them.

A young girl even waved at him with a smile. “Good work, Mr. Hero!” she shouted.

That was the first real moment in his life Tenya looked at himself inside and decided, this was what being a hero was all about – because there were things worth protecting.

***

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes and Fanon:
> 
> \- On Dabi and Shouto: At the time of this writing, I haven't followed canon far enough to see if Dabi is actually Shouto's brother. As such I'm writing their encounter in a manner that would be workable either way, and hope I'm not making a huge mistake anywhere (as per the latest chapter). Such is the risk of going out of bound of canon...  
> \- The Mina - Tooru - Jirou section was one of the hardest scene I've written since the beginning of this fic, and took multiple drafts, additions, revisions and amendments to get halfway right (as I see it, anyway). Here's hoping I didn't get their personality too off. Also, Blind Guardian reference out of nowhere.   
> \- This chapter contains a not-so-subtle TvTropes referral. Browse at your own peril!


	24. Many Mistakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off: Merry Christmas, ladies and gentlemen!
> 
> Let me apologize (again!) for the tardiness. The reason of the week is neck pain + a dollop of work-related matters. (And Grim Dawn, but shush on that!)
> 
> My New Year resolution would be to have more discipline in updating. Let's see how it goes!

**CHAPTER 22**

**MANY MISTAKES**

 

If Bilbo hadn't been sure before whether handing the smartphone to Ori was a good idea, now he knew: It was the worst decision he had made since leaving Rivendell. The phone, as it happened, was floating all the way up the ceiling, stuck there twenty feet above Ori as if caught by an especially sticky glue.

“What did you do, Master Ori?”

Ori's lips were trembling, trembling, _trembling_.  “I... uh, well...” His voice lowered. “W-what _have_ I done, exactly?”

“Alright, alright, calm down, my dear sir!” Bilbo pressed his forehead. “Let me see... put all your fingers together and say 'Release'!”

This, right then, was the worst decision he had made since his last one: if only because Ori did exactly as he was told at once without pause. In hindsight, the result was entirely predictable – the smartphone dropped to the ground like a rock. For once Bilbo's reflex didn't save him: reached out as he tried, the phone slipped by his finger by a mere inch.

There was a dreadful _crash_ like his mother's finest tableware had been swiped off the high shelf and was no more. It wasn't his heirloom this time, yet almost as bad all the same. The smartphone was in pieces, its remains strewn across the table upon which it was dashed. 

“Oh. Dear.”

For a long while there was naught but silence. Ori sat down, fiddling his (well, Uraraka's) fingers speechlessly. Bilbo was doing much of the same, finding the phone's wreckage strangely mesmerizing. 

It was some time before the dwarf could speak again. “Uh, Master Baggins?” he asked with this innocent-as-a-lamb voice. “I don't suppose... nothing of value was lost, was there?”

Bilbo found himself drawing a long breath, and tore his eyes away from the broken smartphone. “I can only hope,” he said.

“I'm sorry,” said Ori.

How else could Bilbo have answered but with a shrug? “No point crying over spilt milk, at any rate.” he said. The only way this could have been worse was if he'd missed any call meant for Izuku – particularly in this mess of an afternoon. _Not that likely, gracious me!_

Then came more silence, until at long last Ori brought it upon himself to sit down cross-armed and let off the mother of all sighs.

“L-like I asked,” he finally said.  “What... exactly... did I just do, Master Baggins?”

_Oliphaunt in the room_ ,  _Master Ori_ .

“Well, my good sir, that's hard to explain in the span of a cup of tea,” said Bilbo. “But I'll try. We are, for want of better explanations, in a world where everyone has some sort of... power. Well, nearly everyone, but that's beside the point.”

Ori gulped. “Is that why you said,  _these folk_ are _-_ ” He gestured towards the window. “-stronger than  _Gandalf_ ?”

“Yes,” said Bilbo. “Some of them can control fire, or ice, or lightning, or any manner of force of nature, as easily as a breath or a thought. Others could turn themselves into rocks – real rock and stone, I do mean (which is to say quite unlike you dwarves, no offense meant). And others... well, think of any sort of esoteric and arcane thing your imagination can conjure, my good book-keeper, sir, and there you have it.” 

He paused for a moment and gathered his thoughts – poor old Bilbo Baggins just couldn't get used to  _Miss Uraraka_ 's face turning all weird even with the knowledge it was a dwarf behind it. 

“I... see,” said Ori at last with a gulp. “So what I just did-”

“That was the power of the girl whose body you now inhabit, Master Ori,” Bilbo said. “Her trick of the trade is controlling  _weight_ . She can make a boulder light as a feather just by touching it with all her fingers, and make that same feather-light boulder heavy as is its wont again, just by a thought. You've just used her ability without knowing you did.”

“T-that's convenient. And inconvenient.” He paused. “And horribly counter-productive, I say.”

Bilbo was not sure if he should shake or nod. At least the dwarf wasn't spewing all over the classroom like Uraraka might have. Not much of a silver lining, but Bilbo would take what he could have.

Or maybe it wasn't much of a silver lining. Next thing Bilbo knew, Ori was heaving up the teacher's table with all five fingers.

“By Mahal! Feels like it's made of mithril!” he remarked. “Is this how the great weapons made by the great Telchar's hammer felt to those heroes of old?”

“By Eru, my dear Master Ori!” cried Bilbo. “Please put it down! Miss Uraraka's Quirk is not a toy!”

Therein lay Bilbo's third mistake – because again Ori did exactly as he was told. The table fell on the ground with a loud _slam_ that echoed all over the room. Multiple angry cracks were running all over the spotless marble ground – the needless destruction made Bilbo cringe and shudder.

“Whoops,” said a very doe-eyed Ori. “This might need some refinement-”

Would that it was the end of the trouble! Almost at once Bilbo heard a choir of very heavy footsteps running down the hallway outside. 

Apparently the noise had carried further than the both of them would have liked. 

The two barely had time for an utterance of “Oh. Dear.” With a rip the door was torn open. Standing in the gaping opening was a figure, best described as a half-naked troll of a man wearing studded braces and a fleshy hood over his head. 

One needed be no wizard or high-elf wise beyond the ages to know they were in _trouble_ .

“Ha, thought there were _still_ some more rats in the building.” he said. “Seems the great Trapezius Headgear is right as always.”

But then the troll-man's gaze found Bilbo. At once his brows raised, all too quizzically.

“Wait,  _you_ again?” he said. “That's funny, thought Aza-chan had already taken care of you lot.” 

“ _Again_ ?” Bilbo thought aloud. “Let me see, I don't think I know you or what you are talking about-” 

In most cases thinking out loud in front of a great threat wasn't the wisest or best cause of action. This one case was an exception: the troll-man stopped in his track. His brows was raising higher and almost vanished into his fleshy hood. 

“Oh?” he said. “That's interesting. I thought you wanted to  _fight_ , boy, not talk? Wasn't that the impression just a while ago?”

Sweat rolled down Bilbo's forehead. What  _had_ Izuku actually been doing with this unpleasant troll of a man? Then the most asinine, yet most hobbitish sort of thought came to him:  _Why not confuse him further?_

So he cleared his voice, and assumed his most serious, business-like voice. “Or perchance, that's because I didn't know what you want with us to begin with,” he said. “And as you should know, we hob- heroes-in-training are a tenacious bunch.” Now Bilbo's voice was calmer than he thought he was otherwise able. “Tenacious, but not quite unreasonable, mind you.”

The troll scratched his fleshy hood. 

“Heh, what would I want with you?” he said. “Good question! Y'know,  _Aza-chan_ might have wanted to smoke you alive, but if it's me? Well I can be a whole lotta more accommodating and pleasant, shall I say. You'd make for some fine hostages until this job's over and I get away safely-”

_Hostages?_ On second thoughts, that might not have been a bad idea at all. As long as the creature  _wasn't_ out to kill him outright, they could always talk things over like a gentle-hobbit over tea... 

So he harrumphed, and began his pitch. “I should think, my dear sir-”

Bilbo Baggins' fourth mistake in a row, as it was, was failing to account for the apparent _flare_ in Ori's eyes. Suffice to say seeing 'Uraraka' snapping a chair in halves wasn't something he'd expect to see in a while (or at all). But there it was and there he had to live with it – as did he have to live with the fact that Ori was brandishing the broken chair like a dwarven war axe, pointing it at the troll-man: all his fingertips were around the handle.

“Hostage? Not in this life!” he cried, and there was so much confidence on his face it might have sufficed for the whole Company – Thorin included. “In the name of Durin the Deathless who named hills and dells ere rose the sun and moon!”

Not that, of course, his newfound confidence affected the troll-man any. The gigantic creature narrowed its eyes at Ori.

“Oh, so you _do_ want to fight!” He flashed his overly shiny teeth. “To which I say, _gladly_.”

*******

Yagi Toshinori's heavy steps thundered along the corridor. The villains, as they should be, had been defeated – hammered into the ground, knocked into walls, broken and unconscious.

But the damage had already been done.

He had been a pro-hero for nine and thirty years, give or take a few months. At some point any and every villain fight became a sort of routine – because passionate as he was in the endless fight to save innocents and maintain order, at some point he had to have seen it all. That afternoon was the rudest awakening he had received in years: that it was too early for him to speak so assertively about _having seen it all_. 

It wasn't that an attack on a TV station was altogether unexpected – up and coming villains had been making the mass media a favorite first-strike target because of how visible they were. No, it was what happened  _before_ that: An attack all over Tokyo, on his watch. No, more like on the very afternoon he was supposed to be  _off_ watch for his all-important, game-changing interview. 

When it began, Toshinori was sitting in the waiting lobby, carefully choosing what to say, how to say, and most of all, how to keep his time because he had less than an hour and a half remaining for the day. Sequestering himself in the lobby ended up causing some casualties: two of the security guards were unconscious too, one half-sitting against the wall, blood streaming down his head, the other crumpled in a heap next to a fire hose. 

The remaining guards now rushed into the hallway, panicked and sweat-drenched. The team, five in number and not exactly blessed with combat-oriented quirk, was hurrying about with cuffs and cudgels. The sound of cuffs locking around wrists blurred out by Toshinori's ears. 

It was so unlike him, but neither the innocent casualties nor the villains he so quickly defeated was on top of his mind.

In hindsight, the villains who came quirk-blazing at the TV station were little more than sacrificial lambs. They probably hadn't even known All Might was there. One of the attackers, mid-twenty at best, was yelling and screaming in  _fear_ as All Might dashed towards him. Said fear still didn't fade from his comatose face now, even as he was sliding off the wall in a heap.

And then it struck him just _why_ the villain was so afraid. At that moment, the Symbol of Peace was not smiling, flashing his teeth and crying “I am here.” No, All Might was both _angry_ and _shocked_ and _worried sick_ , and it showed, and he could only imagine how frightening it would be to a wannabe villain caught in his warpath.

And why wouldn't he be? 

Over the five minutes between the first “Tokyo under attack” newsflash and the actual villain coming crashing through the TV station lobby, Toshinori hadn't been able to contact Midoriya. Not by phone, not by social media, not by voicemail. Young Midoriya had vanished entirely from the internet.  _The young man who never left his phone had vanished entirely from the internet._

Trying  _not_ to think of the worst was harder than it should be. 

He had thought to call some of those young men and women close to him – Uraraka, perhaps, or Iida, or that girl Hatsume from Support. It took much of his self-control  _not_ to do so; at least not at once. What were the odds they would ask questions, like  _why is the Symbol of Peace paying that much attention to this one_ student? Pretty darn high, actually.. 

At the same time, the lingering worry within him reared its head once more: if young Midoriya had been caught in whatever was going on in his neighborhood... would he have tried to take on the villains himself? 

_“You've been a teenage boy once, haven't you? Proud and brash and so, so afraid of betrayal deep inside.”_

Was that even a question? The answer, obviously, was ' _Of course he would!_ '

But then the security officer wearing a captain's armband stepped in front of him. “W-we'll handle the rest here, sir!” he cried, and pointed towards the window outside. “The rest of the city needs you, sir!”

Toshinori nodded sullenly. Indeed they would. “Excuse me,” he said.

But his anxiousness would not fade. He flicked on his phone for update as he rushed down the stairway into the lobby, almost on instinct, as if looking for any reason, any proof, any small hope that this worst case scenario was not so.

There was, unsurprisingly nothing but bad news. Kouriban under attack. Mana'an on fire. Villains taking hostages in a mall in Hosu. Gunfight between police and gun-quirk-toting villains out of a police station in Dantouin. His eyes stopped on the line that read “Disaster in Musutafu”, and it took a good deal of willpower just to tear his eyes from the headline.

At the end of his newsfeed there was a tiny message from Recovery Girl.  _“Looks like things are going down poorly down in USJ,”_ she'd written.  _“I'm lending Aizawa a hand that-a-way. In one way or another.”_

At first Toshinori paid it no mind. next to the news on the attack on the metro line between U.A. and Musutafu and whatever else that needed his hands, that message might as well have been irrelevant.

But then the image of explosions and a spiky-haired boy who'd barged into the Principal's office without leave filled his mind. He stopped in his track.

_Could it be..._

Realization hit him with all the might of a sledgehammer.

“Oh. No.”

That meant _two_ boys who looked up to him, in trouble at the same time. He broke into a sprint, maintaining just enough self-control not to stir up a whirlwind behind his heel.

Hardly had he stepped out of the lobby when a fleet of police cars with ambulances and firefighters in tow skidded to a halt in front of the building, sirens blaring. Off the frontmost car jumped Naomasa, frazzled and breathless, his detective coat billowing in the wind.

“Good timing, All Might,” he said, nearly tumbling out of the police car. “Looks like everything's all right here, I guess?”

Toshinori shock his head.  _Ain't nothing_ good  _in this mess._

“Nothing to worry about,” Toshinori said, “Get your men and round up the villains.” He could hear his own footsteps hammering on the ground as he held back a cough. “Now tell me what  _exactly_ is happening and  _how_ did this happen.” His voice was forceful and vindictive – horrifyingly so. 

Naomasa sighed. “Long story,” he said. “I don't know where they're getting the manpower from, but they've hit two dozen places around the city-” He gestured at the squad of police officers behind him “We've been in damage control mode.”

For a second all Toshinori could hear was his own ragged breathing. “Look me in the eye, Naomasa,” he said, “and tell me what's going on in Musutafu.”

“Musutafu?” Naomasa narrowed his eyes. “News travel fast, doesn't it?” he said. “Two villain attacks, is what it is. A fire-and-magma duo hit the metro line through Musutafu and U.A. and trapped an entire train inside the tunnel. And a ne'er-do-well's a convenience store with an extremely dangerous quirk.”

Toshinori's lips quivered. “Casualty report?”

“We're still getting to the train,” said Naomasa. “Backdraft is supposedly taking the case, but he hasn't reported back for twenty minutes!”

 _So unlike him, in other words_.

Toshinori drew another deep breath. “What about USJ?”

Naomasa's brows quirked. “USJ? What is USJ got to do with anything?” he said. “Things have actually been rather quiet on that front. I would worry more about the team of villain breaking through the U.A. Barrier if I were you-”

Toshinori could hear something snapping inside him. “Come again?” he bellowed. “I thought-”

Once again, Toshinori was brought back to earth by an outside agent – namely his phone and its all so distinct ringtone. Just for once, he wished he'd chosen one less obnoxious.

It was Aizawa's number, and as per normal it delivered. “ _Aizawa here._ ” The voice on the other side was as emotionless as ever. “ _Just calling to say I've run into a couple of silly schmucks thinking it fun to rob a convenience store with a radiation quirk. Tell Naomasa or whoever around, that I'll be checking up on Backdraft right away-_ ”

“That's a relief,” said Toshinori. And then  _once again_ realization hit him like a sledgehammer. “Wait, aren't you at USJ with Recovery Girl?”

“ _USJ?_ ” Aizawa's voice was rising. Uncharacteristically. “ _Why would I be there? Why would_ Recovery Girl  _be there? Unless..._ ”

The silence on both ends of the line was suffocating.

Toshinori was quite sure the both of them came to the same conclusion at the same time.

“ _Understood._ ” said Aizawa at long last. “ _I'll take a detour then. You head on to school premise on the double!_ ”

“Take care now, Aizawa!” exclaimed Toshinori. Whether Aizawa heard him was questionable: he had hung up before Toshinori had finished.

No, this was not the time to ruminate. Aizawa had a plan – he always had.

Now it was up to him.

“Naomasa,” he said. “I'm heading to Musutafu on the double. Inform the other heroes you can contact; get as many to the U.A. barrier and USJ as you can. I've got a tunnel fire to put out; will be back as soon as I can.”

He nodded understandingly. “Need a ride, All Might?”

“No,” Toshinori said. “This is personal.”

Naomasa's eyes cast a very swift, almost too subtle, glance at his watch. “Are you sure?” he said.

Toshinori gritted his teeth. “Enough time,” he said. “I'll manage. I always do.”

It was a reassurance to himself if nothing else. _Choice_ had ever been the bane of a hero who wished to save as many as he could. A hero wasn't supposed to choose who to save. Yet right then, amidst the fire and smoke, young Midoriya was more important than the U.A. barrier or anywhere else.

It was one of the few moments in his life Toshinori felt himself blatantly unheroic and yet couldn't bring himself to do otherwise.

***

It was supposed to be a big break for Okakoe Ekou, self-proclaimed expert on the human voice and conman extraordinaire.

One moment he was a small-time telephone scammer, tricking trusting housewives and the odd odd salaryman with a skeleton too many in the closet. The next he was hired by a nasty-looking guy (not good) paying a large wad of money on the spot (better) for a job involving a bit of impersonation and kidnapping (very good) with the promise of more when the job was done (yippee!).

The order was to kidnap an U.A. staff member and brought them to a meeting place to be decided later.

It was a daring and supremely dangerous thing, yet a job Ekou was pretty sure he – and only he – could do well enough for the hand-faced idiot of a ringleader. After all, he used to study there – for long enough to know not all pro heroes who taught at U.A. were _all that_. 

He prided himself in his smarts – being able to make plans quickly and efficiently and alter them on the spot as the situation demanded; why else could he have made tidy monies as a scammer? This plan of his, he'd made in the span of five hours, and it had gone so splendidly. He didn't even need to resort to drugging: Recovery Girl was sitting unobjectionably in the back seat. 

It really wasn't hard at all to deceive an old woman. All he needed to do was intercept the school phone line (which the last cyber-attack had made all too easy), imitate the bastard Aizawa and trick Recovery Girl to leave the premises. The next step was second nature to him: jack into the taxi server, intercept her would-be driver, knock him out with a certain trick-of-the-trade, and take his place. Now all he needed to do was to deliver the old ratty lady to his contact-

“Hey, sonny.”

The thug glanced at the rear mirror. The old woman was still sitting there, not moving a muscle. Except, of course, for her lips, which had now curved into a small smile of a sort.

“Eh? Oh, sure. What's on your mind, grandma?”

“Quite a bit, actually,” she said. “For starters, how about you tell me a little about this person you're probably taking me to?”

Ekou knitted his thin brows. “W-what?” he said. “I don't know what you're talking abou-”

The old woman made a show of sniffing the air. “I smell chloroform in the backseat, you see,” she said. “I could be wrong, of course, but if I'm not – odd choice of car deodorant it is, don't you think? Brings to mind image of someone being tied up in the car trunk, none the wiser what  _someone else_ is doing to his car.” 

Ekou's shoulder jerked. _Wait, what?_

But he drew a deep breath. He hadn't been in this career for so long to let simple bluffing scare him, after all. “Nice joke, heh, heh, grandma,” he said. “That sense of humor must have won awards, no?”

“Joking? Am I now?” The old woman barely stirred. “Actually, not like it matters very much now, that _inconvenient truth_ ,” she said. “Focus on the road. Busy street. Rush hour in Tokyo in a mass villain attack isn't the loveliest thing in the world, no?”

“I-I don't know what you're going on about, grandma. I'm just a cabbie trying to make ends meet-”

He saw the old woman's eyes glinting, reflecting in the rear mirror. It was... unsettling, like you were in a haunted house with a ghost, that might or might not be altogether malevolent, that knew you were there.

“Then it would have been an interesting choice of career, wouldn't it? Never thought you would have become a taxi driver,” she said. “A problem student who used to get into trouble for impersonating teachers. Got beat black and blue by other students over a particularly... harmless prank. Getting expelled by Aizawa of all people must have been insult to injury.” She reclined backwards and folded her arms. “Am I right, Mr. Okakoe Ekou, formerly of Hero Class A, or has this old woman's memory failed her?”

Ekou very nearly slammed his feet on the brake. “What? How...”

The old woman steepled her fingers. “I remember every single student coming through my door, Okakoe.” she said. “Why, I remember the first time you staggered into the infirmary. Hero work isn't for you, you said, because why else would you be put down by those with stronger quirks?”

The cabin spun around Ekou. Stars flew before his eyes. There was the taste of iron on his lips, and a sharp pain besides. Suddenly the traffic looked so much like a hazardous field of mines, spikes and dangerous-looking objects.

What could he do but keep quiet?

The old woman wasn't, however, going to take silence for an answer. “It's not like you to stay quiet, I do recall,” she said. “A few of your classmates said you love the sound of your own voice – well, voices.”

Ekou could feel his patience seeping away. “You said it yourself, old woman!” he exclaimed. “Hero work wasn't for me-” It was just luck that the traffic light just turned red. A pretty long stop too, or he might have crashed messily into something.

“That I did,” He stared at the rear mirror. There was a ghost of a smile on Recovery Girl's face. “But not because you were incapable. You were a smart boy, and still are. You managed to get me into your car without so much as raising an alarm. Had I not been a doctor or not known Aizawa as well as I do, you could have taken me hostage without anyone any wiser about it.”

“You've got a good quirk and some very good skills to go with it. You just don't have your heart in the right place, is what it is.”

 _Bull seeing red_ would be a pretty good description of Ekou's thought process just then. “That's wrong!” he screamed. “Did you think I hadn't tried, like that _idiot_ Aizawa said? Did you think it's _my fault_ that I end up where I am? Did you think-”

“Then what are you doing here, Okakoe?” she said. “I don't know what villain you're working for, sonny, but they're still that. Villains.”

“And? Hero, villain, aren't we all just trying to earn a living?”

He had half-expected Recovery Girl to launch into a long tirade about heroism, social order, justice and _doing what is right_ , as a pro hero was wont to spout. Oh, and he'd be so glad to shut her down, too, because his _life_ had been a living evidence of how poorly this wretched society would treat people who were meant to become hero yet never quite made the cut-

But that was not what the old hag said. “I don't disagree on principle,” she said. “I _would_ prefer, however, that those who graduated from U.A. would follow a line of work that would not hospitalize more people – or contribute thereto.”

“It's either us or them,” said Ekou. “Sorry, but I prefer to eat.”

The old woman sighed. “Perhaps,” said Recovery Girl, waving her hands. “But enough about that. Let's talk about your plans. Let's assume you deliver me to whoever that's paying. And then what?”

“Like I'm gonna tell?”

The closed-eyes smile on her face never faded. “I thought as much – because you don't have any plan beyond getting paid,” she said. “You aren't hero material, but you aren't villain material either. Not like you to make a grand sweeping conspiracy against the public like proper villains would. Otherwise you'd be in charge of the operation, not a simple errand boy. Am I right?”

Ekou could feel fumes rising from his ear. “Hey, assume you _are_ correct,” he said, hands wrestling with the driving wheel. “What's wrong with that? What's wrong with a man down on his luck trying to earn _some_ kind of living in a world not exactly _friendly_ to those not on the right side of _society expectation_?”

“All's fine, of course, until people gets hurt,” said Recovery Girl. “And if I had resisted in any way, that would have been me. A doctor isn't too useful with a crippled limb or a hole in the torso, would she?” Her gaze pierced him, as if _knowing_ there was the trench knife in his jacket. “I want to _help_ you, Okakoe. You aren't meant to be in this business. You can let me in on what your _leader_ is planning and walk away...”

“If I don't?”

She shook her head. “Then it's too bad.” To his horror, Recovery Girl was pulling her smartphone out of her pocket. “This car has been tracked via my smartphone.”

Ekou felt faint. _S-she outwitted me? The professional conman?_

“And just in case you would deny having anything to do with this business, I've got our exchange recorded.” The grandmotherly look on her face was both scary and insulting at the same time. “Don't you worry, Aizawa wouldn't harm a former student of his – too badly.”

That was it. In the end, when all was said and heard, when the delivery target grew closer and closer on his smartphone map, fear did to Ekou what it always did to cowards – which was to scream in his ears, “SELF PRESERVATION! SELF PRESERVATION!”.

So Ekou made up his mind, right then, right there. Screw Shigaraki and his motley “League of Villain”. If Ekou could choose, he had to make sure there was no witness who could point fingers towards him. And oh, was it not up to him to choose? It was now _his_ car, and _his_ imperative to take a detour into a less-traveled and less-lit lane. It was _his_ imperative to slam the brake.

It was certainly _his_ imperative to walk out, reach for his knife, and open the passenger door with a murderous blaze in his eyes. “Alright, now the curtain's drawn, eh?” he shouted. “Don't forget I'm still the guy with the kni-”

At once he felt a _very_ sharp pain in the neck.

“Wrong answer, sonny,” he heard the old woman say. “How regrettable...”

It was _not_ his imperative to stand straight: his knees were buckling as the knife fell from his hand. He would scream, but his voice would not come to him. His hearing was good, however, till the last minute: enough to hear the annoying old hag's squeaky voice echoing in his ears even as his sight went black.

“Never mess with old women with a medical doctor's degree.”

It was wisdom imparted too late: his limbs no longer responded, and his consciousness soon thereafter.

***

The cold was biting Izuku from all sides, and not only because of his wet clothes.

They'd been walking around the underground lake for a while, following whichever direction the draft was guiding them. The ground was rough and rocky, the wall uneven, and the odd vegetation growing where naught else but luminous mushrooms took root were deformed and root-like.

Izuku glanced back at Uraraka, for the dozenth time now. Each time his admiration grew. She wasn't so comfortable with being in a dwarf's body: her footsteps were clumsy, her gait imbalanced, and once every so often her hands reached for the neighborhood of Ori's beard to scratch an itch or two.

But Uraraka wasn't complaining. In fact, once or twice their eyes met, and she was smiling back at him – in a manner more awkward than cute, since it was still Ori's face she was wearing.

“It isn't that bad, isn't it, Deku?”

The word _Deku_ sounded different now. It would be a while until Izuku would forget it used to be a term of derision, but Uraraka's constantly beaming face helped immensely. 

“No, it isn't,” he said, and meant it both ways. 

It might have been half an hour, by sheer estimation, before they came to a part of the lakeside where the shore was shallower and less steep. Izuku raised a brow: There, tied against a boulder jutting towards the water was a crude boat hewn and hollowed out from a single log. Looking in a straight line, Izuku saw the silhouette of an islet in the middle of the lake, and what seemed like a tiny hut nestled among the rocks and fungi.

Unlikely as it seemed, the lake _had been_ inhabited by someone – or probably some _thing_ , comfortable in the deep darkness and the scant light. 

Uraraka looked around. “I'll check it out,” she said, and began stumbling towards the boat. Izuku held out his hand, and almost at once began to blush. 

“I'll do it,” he said – awkwardly. “After all I'm more used to this, um, body, than you are to yours, I think?” 

And off he went. He waded off into the distance towards the boat. Izuku had half a thought of climbing inside, but a good long look at the shaky little thing made him decide against it. Already the poor thing was rocking and about to flip over, obviously meant to support less weight than even a single hobbit.

What Izuku did instead was peek inside. Not that there had been much to examine but a pile of bones – fishbones and a clamshell or two among others that looked suspiciously large and grisly. No oars or paddle was anywhere in sight. Izuku would question the wisdom of combining the function of a vehicle with a garbage can, but he wasn't the owner at any rate.

Very carefully and with shaky feet he tumbled off, and waded back to the shore. There Uraraka was waving wildly at him with one hand – her other was covering her mouth and nose. No sooner had he arrived on shore than Uraraka lowered her waving hand and pointed at the ground.

Indeed there were muddy, slimy footprints about the size of a hobbit's feet leading from the boat and along the lakeside. Bare footprints: he could make out what looked like tiny toes. There was a reason Uraraka was covering her nostrils: There was a certain kind of stench about it, not unlike damp laundry left too long in the dark, wafting about their side of the lake. The smell had diffused into the night now, and good riddance too: it must have been overwhelming at first.

A smile came to Izuku's face before he knew it was there.

“Deku?” said Uraraka between blinks. “Are we going to-”

Izuku nodded. “Follow the prints,” he said. His confidence was surging back with every word he said. “Whoever this... person is, they must have dwelt and  _survived_ this place for long enough to make a living out of it.” 

Uraraka narrowed her eyes – not at Izuku, but at the raft. “Couldn't that person be... I don't know, _dangerous_?”

“Possibly,” said Izuku, “but not  _that_ likely.” He, too, looked towards the raft. “Just look at the thing – I don't think anything larger than, well,  _me_ in this body can stay on it for long!” He slammed his fist into his palm. “You with me, Uraraka?”

“He could be small, sure, but still-” said Uraraka.

The only answer Izuku had was his own smile, as bright and cheerful as if to say  _everything is all right because I am here._ “There are two of us, aren't there?” he said. “All we need is watch each other's back, and all would be well!”

Now Uraraka was blinking, and blinking, and blinking some more. And then the beam returned to her face. “I guess I can do that,” she said. The words that went unsaid were _I trust you_.

Izuku nodded; his smile widened, and then the journey was on.

The footprint trail wound around the lake, past many odd-looking stalagtites and boulders. Izuku was no forensic expert, but even in the darkness the unevenness of the print was apparent. From time to time there were hand-prints too, intermingling with the footprints. Whatever the creature was, it must have been shuffling along on all fours.

Finally the footprints stopped, bent around, and turned into a concave on the side of the cavern. Now it had grown hasty, the prints mingling and overlapping: the creature must have broken into a limping sprint.

Turning into the alcove made it apparent to Izuku as to _why._

The sight spread before Izuku could not have been described as anything but grisly.

Bloodstains, black as the night, had been splashed against the rocky wall. Slumped in the corner was a goblin, its head split open. Black blood was pouring out from a jagged hole on the back of its skull. Another goblin lay dead against a nearby rock, its neck torn open by what looked like some  _very_ sharp claws. An extinguished torch lay at its feet, the ember long gone and not a wisp of smoke was rising from the burnt end. 

But just a few inches away there was a splash of crimson – crimson, not black – against the wall, and from it a trail of blood drops went off into the distance, vanishing behind what looked like a very narrow and unlit tunnel. From the carnage to the opening there was only one set of footprint that showed no toe-print whatsoever. Whoever was making those last prints must have been wearing shoes as opposed to crawling along bare-footed.

_The crawling creature must have lost the fight._

Izuku stared at the dark hole. The closer he looked, the less comfortable he grew: it was merely a couple feet across – and that was a generous estimation. There was no torch, but the few luminous shrooms growing here and there betrayed a winding, twisting and treacherous tunnel without any indicator as to what was at its end.

Uraraka was shaking her head. “That... looks dangerous,” she said, matter-of-factly.

Izuku would concur, and would have wanted nothing to do with it at all... had it not been the only way halfway promising an escape out of the grotto. 

“If we're careful they aren't that likely to catch us,” said Izuku. “The cave's dark and we're small. And if they do see us-” He dropped to one knee and began running his hand along the ground. “Between you and me, we could jump a goblin or two.”

He gathered a few handfuls of rocks of different sizes and shapes. His eyesight wasn't so good in the darkness, but there was no need to snipe anyway.

“It's alright!” he declared. “Because-”

But then when he stood up, Uraraka was not looking at him any more. She was standing up, having probably just picked up something from the ground herself.

But something wasn't so right: Whatever the object was, it was drawing all of her attention. Uraraka was staring at the palm of her hand without a blink, and the corner of her mouth was drooping a little as if drunk.

_So very concerning._

“Uraraka?” Izuku asked. “Are you alright?”

Uraraka's shoulders jerked. “Ah... Oh? Me?” Her voice was Sure, sure, I'm fine, I'm fine! Just a little... uh... a little dizzy, is all.”

Izuku narrowed his eyes.  _So very suspicious._

“Do you want to sit down for a bit?” 

Uraraka's eyes flashed. “No, no, not at all. I'm all fine now, see?” She flailed her arms about. “J-just lead the way; I'm right behind you, ha, ha-”

There was indeed a million things he could have asked her, out of either curiosity or concern, or that fledgling emotion surprisingly close to _greed_.  Izuku caught the glimpse of _gold_ behind her fingers, and that brought to mind more than one questions of _what_ or _how_ or _why._ To say nothing of a nagging feeling of _I want one of that too_ and another of _why can't I have one of that_ – however un-Izuku-like it was of him to think such. 

Izuku at once felt like slapping himself.  _Not the time or place_ , he thought, and drew one breath and then two.  _Not the time or place._

“Shall we get going?” he said, and his lips curved into a smile because that was what Bilbo  _and_ All Might would have done, wasn't it? Laugh at your problems until they melt away at your endless positivity? 

“One second,” said Uraraka. Whatever it was in her hand, she stuffed it very quickly into her coat pocket, as if afraid it would fall off – or someone would rob her of it.

It was all Izuku could do to tear his eyes from Uraraka and her coat pocket, but that was what he did.  _There is still a trail to follow..._

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes and Fanon:
> 
> \- And here it is, the big twist! Deku is never meant to have the ring to begin with...  
> \- I decided to give Recovery Girl a moment! She *is* a pro hero for a reason, even though all that she does is heal people.  
> \- OC declaration: 
> 
> Name: Okakoe Ekou (侵声恵光 - “Invade”, “Voice”, “Blessing”, “Light”, for the sake of irony). Also a very obvious pun..
> 
> Villain name: None. Not yet, and given the resolution of this chapter, probably never.
> 
> Quirk: Disguising Voice - he can imitate the voice of anyone he had heard. Works best through telephones rather than face-to-face for obvious reasons.


	25. Peace Sign in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Emerges*  
> I *huff* can *puff* explain my lack of update: Business trip, family stuff, and some brilliant pieces of media I've come across!

**CHAPTER 23**

**PEACE SIGN IN THE DARK**

 

_Gold._

Ochako's hands had moved before her head could react. It moved before she could ask herself “why”. It moved, and there it was: Ochako was one gold ring wealthier, and she hadn't even fully registered she had it in hand.

But her blankout wasn't for long. At once something coursed through her: confusion first of all, and so many questions. What was it? Whose was it? Why was it left there on the cavern floor where nobody who should possibly wear rings would walk at all? And, a fleeting one but pertinent none the less: _Why her_?

After confusion, came euphoria. The golden thing shone so brightly in her hands. So pretty. So mesmerizing. So promising. All of it was hers. All of the light, all of the warmth, all of the _promise_ without shape yet doubtlessly there within the shape of a little ring. It was in her hands. She had found it; better keep it safe. It was only natural: Finder, keeper, right? Right?

But then Deku _had_ to turn around and ask her what was wrong, and Ochako very nearly hyperventilated.

At once her mind jumped to some very dark places: _Why would Deku ask me?_ _He probably wants it too, doesn't he?_ The precipitous drop in trust had scared her, but only just.

And Ochako wasn't going to share.

In the darkness her hands had curled into a fist. Not that she would fight Deku, but- but if he had tried to

But then, fortunately, thankfully, wonderfully, Deku had let the matter drop. He only shrugged, and turned around - not that tearing his eyes from that gold was easy, mind, and Ochako's mind wandered to darker recesses still. _He might be waiting until I let my guard down_.

The thought nagged and nagged at her, almost as itchy as the desire to just look at that gold without a blink. It was hard enough to stuff the thing into the pocket, and harder still to think straight.

Now Deku had turned away. “Let's go,” he said, and what choice did Ochako have but follow him?

Her blind footsteps took her into a tunnel too small, too cramped, too rugged, too _uncomfortable_. Less comforting still, was how her mind had cleared in the darkness, but only enough to start thinking.

Chief on her mind, of course, was, what could she do with this ring? Very good question, and a very grim one too. It was almost despairing to realize she wouldn't get to keep such a precious beauty forever, because she had happened to find it while inside a body not her own. Almost worth all the curses in the world.

Ochako shook her head. _It doesn't matter_. _It's just a novelty, right? Right? I don't... I don't need it that much, surely?_

At once another different thing awoke in her, as if part of her consciousness had gained sentience of its own. So vivid, she could hear that other Ochako speaking inside her ears with a voice sweeter than her tongue could ever manage.

_You want to become a hero, right, Ochako? Remind yourself, my dear, why would you ever want to become a hero?_

Ochako's step slowed in the dark.

 _That's right_. How could she forget her six-year-old self pumping her fist and declare so loudly how she would go pro hero and help her parents earn a better living?

 _Exactly_ , whispered alt-Ochako. _The Ring can give it to you. And so much more_.

_How?_

Alt-Ochako didn't answer. But euphoria washed over Ochako again, and at once she could see... no, she could almost see, and it was so much crueler that way.

She saw herself wreathed in gold and light.

She saw herself on top of a high-rise she built.

She saw herself sitting and just knowing her accounts were swelling.

The mirage was only there for a second, yes, but it steeled Ochako's heart. That, and her own voice, now turned honey-sweet in her ear of ears.

_All you need to do is keep it. Keep it. KEEP IT._

_How_ ?

Mischief welled up. Gears turned. Her mind was singularly focused.  _You can find a way_ .  _Can't you?_

“Uraraka?”

He was whispering, but his voice was so frantic.

_Say something._

She drew a stiff breath, full of the damp smell of lichens and caves never before lit. “Are we...” she said. “Are we there yet?”

It was a poor attempt: such was an immensely bratty and awkward response and not at all like her. But at once Deku squeezed her hand tight, and even with the knowledge that this wasn't her body Ochako could feel her cheeks flushing.

“Everything shall be all right,” said Deku. “I'm sorry all of this happened to you... but please, please hang on with me just for a bit longer, would you?”

He looked at her in the eyes, and Ochako snapped out of her teenage-girl reverie. If not for the _ring_ on top of her mind, she might well be reduced to a stammering wreck. As it happened, the way Deku looked at her _now_ onlysoured the warm feeling in her and replaced it with ugly suspicion yet again.

The question: Why was he paying _so much unwanted attention_ to her all of a sudden?

Ochako shuddered. Had he known? Why, of course he would! She was acting so oddly, so unlike herself – not entirely excusable, even by the fact that she wasn't in her own body. Deku was ever so observant: it _wouldn't_ be him not to notice.

 _Say something that's_ like _you._

“Yeah,” she said. “I'll watch your back, Deku, so... just keep your eyes ahead, alright?”

The face Deku was wearing softened into a smile. “Yeah!” he said, and turned back around.

 _That's more like it_.

For a second Ochako felt rightly disgusted with herself. This wasn't like her. Manipulating people wasn't like her. Hiding the acquisition of some ill-gotten gains _definitely_ wasn't like her.

Her newfound euphoria did a very good job of drowning it out with visions of wealth and power, and how utterly amazing it would feel.

_If you have all of this – all of this! Who needs such a thing as a raggedly little boy any more?_

There was a sound akin to howling laughter deep inside her.

_Isn't it good, my dear little Ochako?_

***

Toshinori had arrived late.

Not too late, thank goodness, as to save lives: There were no villains blocking access to the metro track, and ripping a hole through several layers of concrete was child's play.

The good news was, the situation had resolved itself without him. The villains were nowhere in sight. Probably escaped in the chaos for whatever reason. Good – for them, and for the victims. The smoke in the tunnel made for a _very_ bad place for a fight while innocent lives were on the line. He fanned the black cloud out through the opening, and dove straight towards the train.

Without wasting another moment to think Toshinori flexed and doubled down for business.

“It's all right! Because I am here!” he cried, and tore apart the train's chassis. Peals of Shouts and screams broke out at once: of relief, of jubilation, and not a few ones of pain. The victims were bruised and raggedly and weak from all the panic and the smoke, but they were alive and that was where he came in.

The next minute was a matter of routine. Dash in. Carry the wounded out. Widen the breach so the police and paramedic could jump straight into the tunnel. And, most importantly, never stop smiling even as his clock was ticking down.

“We'll handle the rest here!” cried one of the the paramedics. “Don't let them get away, sir!”

For just a blink Toshinori's smile faded, in its place a fierce, terrifying visage, of brows upturned and jaws taut.

“I'm on it.”

His words were more like a growl, and off he went into the unlit part of the tunnel where the smoke was thickest. _No mercy for the wicked._

It didn't take him very long: Soon the smog opened before him as his feet splashed up water from a very large puddle beneath. The air was abnormally cold and crisp, and the combination of dampness and smoke made his throat tingle.

It was then that Toshinori realized the _bad_ news: the situation _had_ resolved itself without him.

“Young Todoroki?”

Indeed, slumped next to the tunnel wall was young Todoroki Shouto, his face dark, his clothing covered in soot. Just a short distance from him stood a small pillar of ice – must have been a mountain before it melted.

Just a short distance from _that –_ Toshinori could barely hold back a gasp – lay two dead bodies, charred black to the bone, virtually unrecognizable without forensic intervention.

Toshinori held back a cough. “What...” he began, “had happened here?”

Todoroki looked up.“What...” His voice was hoarse. “... do you think?”

What did he think? What else was there to think? Here young Todoroki was sitting amid ash and melting ice, next to two dead bodies brutally murdered by flame. There were nobody else around. Even if he were to give Endeavor's son the benefit of the doubt, the law most definitely wouldn't.

_Why? Why would young Todoroki do..._ _**this** _ _?_

No, no, no, this wouldn't do. He wasn't there to make accusations or pass judgement. He was only a hero – a hero, and a teacher. And a teacher had to take care of his students.

So he crouched down to Todoroki's level, and made every effort to purge every frown on his face. “Listen to me, young Todoroki, _breathe_ ,” he said. “You don't need to say anything. I'll- I'll ask. Just nod, or shake, alright?”

Todoroki's shoulders fell. Slowly, half-heartedly, he nodded.

Toshinori would take what cooperation he could get. “Good.” He drew a nauseating breath full of the smell of burnt flesh. “Are they the villains?”

Nod.

“Is this your doing?”

Shake.

Toshinori was a breath away from shouting “ _Then who_?” He managed to hold himself back just on time. _Not helpful. Not helpful at all._

He didn't have time. And more importantly, he didn't have _time._

Toshinori wiped his forehead. “Did the one responsible,” he said. “Did he leave?”

Nod, again. _Back to square one_.

“I see,” said Toshinori. “Listen, young Todoroki; I don't wish to do this at all.” He sighed. “But I will have to hand you over to the police.”

Todoroki didn't sound angry. More like... resigned. With a sigh. “You don't believe me.”

Not false. Toshinori was trying his best to persuade himself to _believe this young man_ , and failing. _When you have to force yourself to believe because that's the morally_ right _thing to do, then trust itself has already failed._

“It's a matter of principles.” _And due procedures._ “If you really did nothing wrong, there's nothing to be afraid-”

Young Todoroki's eyes narrowed, and for just a short while, something flashed and flickered within them. Something suspiciously close to _hatred_. Toshinori would ask why, but this... well, this was neither the time nor the place.

But the vestige of hatred was just there for a split second. When Todoroki looked up, there was something burning cold in his eyes.

Defiance. And acceptance. A little of both. “Very well,” he said. “I submit.”

And just as his luck would have it, they didn't have to even wait. In the distance came the quick steps of so many boots. Into sight appeared a small team of policemen, carrying batons and cuffs and specialized restraining harnesses for quirk-users – unmeltable shackles and such likes.

“Mr. All Might!” the captain cried out. “Out and ready for the arrest, sir!”

Hardly had the word “arrest” leave his lips when his eyes chanced upon the sheer _mess_ before them.

“Sir?” he said. Had it been a less professional or less serious setting he would have rubbed his eyes in disbelief. “W-what had happened here?”

“An act of fatal vigilantism,” Toshinori said. “Apparently – apparently – these bodies belong to the villains. Call the forensics.”

The three policeman stared at one another, then at the dead bodies, then back at the boy.

“Vigilantism?” said the captain. “But isn't that... Endeavor's son?”

One of them was just raising a finger at the boy when All Might threw them a very, very stern look.

“The answer is yes, and it doesn't matter. Not yet, anyway,” he said. “Young Todoroki is...” His voice choked a little as bile and blood rose in his throat. “... is an important witness, not a suspect.” He swallowed hard. “Not a suspect. Please take him away. And keep him safe.”

Toshinori might not be a very eloquent speaker, but he could do euphemism. He wished. Not that the notion of euphemism would ever work on young Todoroki.

“What will happen to me?” he said. So cold. So emotionless. And yes, so defiant. Yet once the surface peeled off, Toshinori couldn't help but see  _ fear  _ behind the mask. 

_ What could he have hated and feared so much? _

“No harm,” said Toshinori. “No harm if I have anything to say about it – you _have_ to trust me, young Todoroki. Though I would advise you-” The words were so hard to spit out, and it wasn't even because of the blood in his mouth. “-not to say anything unless you really mean it.”

He saw young Todoroki's lips trembling. For a couple seconds that felt like a century or two, no meaningful words left him. No meaningful words, except for a cold, impersonal “I understand.”

Part of Toshinori was fearing the officers would cuff him. They didn't.

But he had no time to rejoice or relax just yet. He cleared his voice just as Todoroki was turning around.

“Oh, and... Young Todoroki, one last thing if you would indulge.” he said. “Did young Midoriya happen to be with you?” _Not the right time, but..._

“Midoriya?” Toshinori had only blinked, and those heterochrome eyes had bored straight into him. For a blink of an eye the hatred intensified. “No.” But just for a blink of an eye.

“Not even on the train?” Toshinori's voice raised without him realizing.

“No.”

“Then where-”

Toshinori interrupted himself. Now that he thought of it – he'd received a text message earlier on in the day. A teachers' notice saying one of the Support students had been involved in an accident and therefore confined in the clinic until after school. He hadn't pay it much attention at first: the big interview of the day had blinded him, for one thing. For the other, he'd assured himself, it was _Support_. What could have possibly gone wrong?

 _Could it be_...

He flicked his phone on, and quickly scrolled down the pertinent message.

Toshinori's fists trembled.

 _Hatsume Mei_.

His heart sank. Suddenly everything added up. Midoriya wouldn't be out of the school unless Hatsume was... and she hadn't been.

He had been on a wild goose chase all along. The only boy he was out to save had been still at school all along. The same place under attack by a  _ gang  _ of villains. The same place that, by his sworn duty as a Hero  _ and  _ a teacher, he was supposed to check out  _ first _ . 

_No time wallow in regret. Act, damn it, Toshinori!_

“E-excuse me,” he said, and accelerated like a wind towards the tunnel's exit.

Toshinori threw a glance at the clock-face on his phone. _Seven minutes_. His teeth ground.

_I can make it._

***

“What do you mean we can't come in there now, elf?”

Nori's voice rang out in the night, and Gandalf thought at once every bit of misplaced hatred against the Noldor was being mustered all at once.

“I meant every word, master dwarf,” said Glorfindel. “Foolish are those who challenge the goblins in their own lair without knowing what lies afoot.”

Theirs wasn't a very good station for a debate of any sort. Their group was perched behind a boulder on the mountain path, where the footing was poor and space not so generously granted. Thorin was pacing around what little space he had atop the mountain pass, and Gandalf sympathized as he tried not to pace about himself.

Needless to say that wasn't a good place to stage a siege. Height. Footing. Narrow profile. The goblins had every advantage a defender could ask for, and then some. Not even with a small army would attacking goblins so entrenched be an easy sort of business, and particularly not at night. Gandalf shuddered: this was the same kind of terrain, indeed, that Turgon King of Gondolin had counted on to keep his secret place safe from the shadow of the First Age.

Here wasn't a very poor place for an army to make camp either, and that wasn't taking into consideration the goblin-fort in the distance. Most of the Noldorin army had stopped lower down the path where there was more room and less goblin-torches. A glance down the path once again made Gandalf silently sing praises for the discipline of the Calaquendi at war: they were standing there still, straight-backed yet hushed, and made not a one complaint.

Meanwhile, what were the dwarves doing? Debating among themselves whether they should send a search team into the cave just behind them – because Bilbo and Ori had been gone for far too long.

In hindsight, he should have thought something like this would happen. Bilbo Baggins was always _meant_ to be the Company's problem-solver, and when the problem was water, it naturally was him to get some. For Bilbo he had little anxiety, because time and again 'dragons in a pinch' had proven less and less of an overstatement whenever the hobbit was concerned. No, his chiefest worry was of Master Ori, youngest of the Company and all but questionable as an adventurer.

The dwarves seemed to agree.

Now his brother was on a rampage. Roguish and of questionable honesty as he might be, Nori wasn't without an older brother's sense of duty. His face had turned to a ruddy shade under the moonlight, and he was knuckling his palm; quite likely imagining himself beating poor old Glorfindel into the mud.

“You can't just leave my brother in the mountain-deep!” he cried.

Gandalf was sympathetic – but only just. The other dwarves, less so.

“Um, no offense, Nori,” said Kili. “But just maaaybe you should have considered accompanying them in the first place.” On his side, Fili was nodding furiously. Bifur was less forgiving still: the Khuzdul tirade coming out of him sounded suspiciously like ' _irresponsible wretch_ ' if Gandalf's rudimentary understanding of their tongue could be trusted. Bofur, understandably, kept quiet in a corner, silently drinking his share of water that the elves brought.

“I. VOLUNTEERED!” he shouted. “But he wouldn't-”

“THEN YOU SHOULD HAVE _FOLLOWED_!” roared Dori.

“Enough!” cried Thorin. “We've got already a fine piece of work here here without you rogues making a scene!” He sat down on a slab, and folded his arm in exasperation.

Balin was less argumentative. He looked to Glorfindel. “Master elf,” he said, with uncharacteristic courtesy for a dwarf of Erebor of his Age. “We can't leave our fellows down there in a lair of goblins!”

“We are not,” said Glorfindel.

There was a frown on his face, out of anxiousness, too, rather than annoyance. Belladonna Took had won herself more than a few friends among elves back in her days, Glorfindel among them. The lifetime friendship of elves, as it was, were wont to extend to kith and kin.

“All I am asking is time till the Sun rises. It should not be very long-”

And then disaster struck. A whistling noise of an arrow. A startled yelp. A filth-tipped arrow crudely fletched, pinned to the cliffside, just inches from the tip of Dwalin's nose.

Gandalf had no clear idea how. The dwarves arguing, or the gleam of the elves' arms just down the road, or even an unnatural sense for the presence of elves born from three Ages of enmity and hatred. But there it was: Alarum sounded. Gongs rang out. Horns blared. Black-speech hollers atop the high parapet. The goblins had found them.

Thorin cursed.

Bofur did the same, but in Khuzdul.

Glorfindel raised his horn. “ _A Elbereth Gilthoniel_!” he cried. “To arms, ye once of the Golden Flower!” Around him rallied his brothers and sisters in arms, nobles of the Eldar clad in silver and blue and the colour of that old House of Gondolin long defunct yet not soon forgotten.

Then up the pass ran a squad of elves bearing bows of silver and ornate quivers – indeed as many as could fit the narrow footing. A cry of “ _Leithio i philinn!_ ” rang out; elven arrows rose from the darkness. Black-feathered arrows rained down in return. Elf-shields tall and bright like true-silver in the moonlight shone – mithril it was indeed, last of Rivendell's arsenal to be forged from the goodwill of the folks of Moria ere Durin's Bane rose from the abyss.

Now Thorin's folks scurried behind the elven shield-wall. Balin and Dwalin, and Dori with gritted teeth, rallied around their king. Fili raised his own shield. Kili loosed arrows after arrows into the dark shapes far above and away. Nori and Bifur dove for shelter beneath the shield-wall. And... Bombur was rolling behind a rock.

Gandalf drew Glamdring from its jeweled sheath and turned towards the goblin rampart just as the crude wooden gate opened. A stream of goblins, snarling and gurgling, was pouring forth from the bowels of the mountain, their wicked blades gleamed darkly under their torches.

So began what would be known as the Battle of the High Pass – and it would indeed be one nasty business.

***

The tunnel had turned out to be a respectable maze of underground paths. Was it the work of goblins? Had it been naturally carved by time and seismic activities? Izuku didn't know, and frankly didn't care so much. He'd been turning left, and then right, and then back left again, each several times in quick succession. The light in the tunnel was dim: he felt a little like a dog, for he was now guided more by smell than sight at all.

Perhaps in another world, and perhaps if it had been Bilbo, and perhaps if he had received proper directions out, that which would have greeted him at the end of the tunnel would have been the glimmering light beyond a stone door left ajar. This, however, wasn't what met Midoriya Izuku: for he was so intent on following the trail of blood and stench, what he soon chanced upon wasn't an exit to the cave and all this gloom and darkness and unpleasant things.

No, it was a crude door of rotting wood. Opening that door took him to another door, more rotten and battered still. Orange light shone through the gaps between the planks. The unpleasant smell just got more rank and deathly, and it wasn't entirely attributable to the goblins' hygiene or lack thereof.

In the distance – above them, perhaps – sounds were echoing about the rocky walls. It shounded suspiciously like fighting: there were shouting and screaming, and of clashing of metal. _No time for that! Escape first, everything else later!_

Izuku turned to Uraraka. “Ready?”

She winked and nodded. “Whenever you are.”

Izuku nodded back. Then he drew in a sharp breath, stood up straight, and kicked the door so hard it crashed against the wall.

There was exactly one goblin left in the room. It turned around just as the door flew open. “Intruder!” it cried with a voice that might well carry all over the tunnel. “Intruder in the Whip Room!”

There was only one thing Izuku could do. Bilbo might not have been the successor of One For All, but his fist, Izuku had found out, was quite hard enough. A single running punch knocked the goblin off its feet and into the opposing wall with a loud crack. It collapsed in a heap at the wall's foot, out cold.

At once Izuku swung his head around. “The door, Uraraka!”

“On it!”

Izuku availed himself of the short respite while Uraraka blocked the door behind them. He rubbed his chest and began to look around.

At once his hands fell to his side.

There was a reason the goblin had called the place “the Whip Room”. It was a torture chamber, well-equipped with tools crooked and wicked. Whips, tongs and pliers lined the racks along the cave wall. On a table there were knives of rusty iron, as sharp as the material could permit, of so many different sizes and shapes. And yes, there were whips, too, both of iron chains and leather, and several ingeniously made lashes with tiny jagged blades attached to the business end.

The torture-master had left the room. Perhaps the commotion all about had had something to do with it. Not that his absence made the sight easier to stomach. If anything, it made the atrocity tenfold worse: because in the middle of the room there was a kind of torture rack Izuku had only seen in a history book. An _occupied_ torture rack.

There across the rack lay a most pitiful and pitiable poor creature: dark and scraggly and misshapen and only vaguely humanoid, naked but for a loincloth caked with mud and blood both black and red. The creature was broken and bruised and bleeding from so many little cuts along its ash-grey skin. It seemed the goblins had been fully intending to rip him in half in the first place: now it was more like they were simply satisfied with leaving him here to bleed very, very slowly to death.

Truly the depravity and cruelty of goblins far exceeded most villains in fancy costumes.

With shaky steps Izuku approached the creature. “H-hello?” His voice cracked.

The creature's eyes bulged open. Those eyes, misty and pained, were impossible to look away from. “Precious... precious...” he muttered. “Give... to us...”

Izuku halted in his track. “Precious?” he asked.

“Precious, small, golden...” he said. “Round... Sparkling... Ours... Ours!” He craned its neck and tried to nod and shake, but failed miserably at both. “Will... save us... Precious... gives strength... Precious... Precious... give... back...”

If disgust had been in Izuku's mind at first (and who could have blamed him? The creature wasn't exactly pleasant to look at), now it was gone. The poor thing was delirious and dying, and so, so in need of being saved.

“I... I don't know what you're talking about,” he said. “But I can help you! Let's get you out of here, and then- and then we'll look for this 'precious' of yours, alright?”

The creature didn't seem to hear Izuku. “Precious... preci-” he said, and collapsed.

There was only one thing Izuku could do: he reached for the nearest sharp object – which happened to be a goblin blade, curved and bloody and grooved, and began hacking away at the cords tying the creature to the mechanism.

And then he heard Uraraka harrumphing behind him. “What are you doing, Deku?” She sounded cross – far crosser than she normally _should_ be. “You aren't thinking about saving this... thing, are you?”

Izuku didn't look back. “Yes. Yes I will.” _This has never been a matter for debate._ “Shouldn't be a problem. I can carry him on my back.”

“Didn't you hear? That gob-goblin thing just alerted this whole place!”

“All the more reason to carry him along,” said Izuku. “Do you think they'd let him live, hanging on the rack like this?”

“Sorry for asking,” said Uraraka. “But why do you _care_?”

Izuku slowly turned around, and stared hard at Uraraka in Ori's flesh. Had fear and anxiousness and weirdness finally cracked her resolve? It was entirely possible, and if that had been the case, it might have well been _his_ fault. But his fault or not, this much was unnegotiable.

“Why not?” he cried softly. “All Might would have saved him, wouldn't he? All Might would reach out and save everyone he can reach!”

“Oh, really?” Uraraka's voice seethed. “But even All Might can't save _everyone_!”

For just a second Izuku's fingers felt numb.

_True._

Being a hero meant not being able to save _literally_ everyone. Even the man himself had said as much. Heck, _Izuku_ himself knew as much: he had known of the _failure_ to save lives before the joy and relief of doing so. It was a hard and harrowing lesson, as fresh on his mind as the three Rangers' graves in the wilds. Had he forgotten it?

No, he had not. Perhaps being a hero didn't mean saving everyone that needed saving – or even being able to.

_But..._

“... but if I see someone I can save, right here in front of me, and I don't even try,” he said. “what kind of hero would I be? What kind of hero would _we_ be?”

Izuku didn't wait for Uraraka to answer. This was a journey he  _had to_ take, with or without her. 

So he went back to his work. The cords were lean yet abnormally tough, and took some desperate sawing before they gave way. Then Izuku took a deep breath, and heaved the poor creature on his back. His nose wrinkled: the creature must have been as adverse to taking baths as Kacchan was adverse to weakness.

No matter. If he could save a life, what was a little stench to bear?

***

Bilbo cringed and jerked backwards.

The last sound he heard was Ori being flung against the wall hard. It was the sixth and seventh time – because expecting a broken chair to block a troll's punch was serious folly.

It was somewhere between _discomforting_ and _frightening_ to see Uraraka's body taking about as much blunt trauma to fell a herd of buffalo. It was infinitely more worrying _and_ perplexing still to see Ori was getting up without fail.

 _Where did that vigour come from_? Was it the endurance of dwarves, born from stone as they were, mixed with Miss Uraraka's own strength? Or was it something else? Bilbo wasn't the only one asking questions about such dwarvish tenacity: the villain's smirk had now soured and faded.

“W-why don't you stay down?”

“Durin's Folk. Do not. Stay down!” was Ori answer, breathless and defiant. Then he hurled himself again at the giant,

And then Bilbo realized just what he'd been doing: Ori had swiped his fingertip at himself just before impact. Or rather, _Miss Uraraka's_ fingertips: and suddenly everything made sense. _Smart._

“Such power is not a toy, indeed, Master Baggins!” exclaimed Ori, launching yet another assault. “As useful as a warhammer from the Iron Hill and a knee-long coat of mail, imagine that!”

 _“Well done, Master Ori!”_ was what Bilbo would have liked to say – and what the young dwarf deserved. But now was simply not the time.

Now Bilbo started looking around the classroom, chanting _escape, escape, escape_ in his head. Which was a harder endeavour than it seemed at first. The troll-man had blocked the only entrance outside, and Ori's hostile reaction had destroyed any chance of a peaceful resolution.

They could jump out of the window _again_ – but only if Ori cooperated, which he certainly wouldn't, and if the blue-skinned giant out there had been defeated, which he certainly hadn't been.

He could start hurling things – but again, only if Ori wasn't prancing around as he was

And Bilbo wasn't so keen on pulling an Izuku and charging the troll-man. No, that would be silly, daft, needlessly self-endangering and of doubtful effectiveness.

 _What_ would _Izuku do?_

The corner of his eyes caught a certain _something_ flashing by the windows. Then there was a _crash_ as loud as an ox-cart full of fragile dinnerware flipping over, that no glass window could entirely remove.

Ori halted in his track. So did the villain. “The hell?”

Bilbo stared out of the window. The first thing his eyes caught was a flash of blue and red and gold, having fallen straight out of the sky like a bolt of lightning.

“It's all right!” Bilbo had heard before he saw. “BECAUSE I AM HERE!”

_Is that... All Might?_

Indeed it was the one and only All Might, in his glory of blue and red and yellow, making a most majestic entry while nailing the blue-skinned villain in the face. The creature flew back half the yard – and U.A. had a very large yard – until he hit a segment of the U.A. Barrier clear cross the field. 

There had indeed never once before that Bilbo was happier, or more excited, to see All Might striding into the fore: he looked as majestic, indeed, as a King of Arnor of old, told in books and myths, each measured step following the last.

Inside the classroom, the villain dropped his hand by his side, his face overtaken by horror.

“A-All Might is here?” The troll-man's armored kneecaps shuddered. “But... but this isn't supposed to...” His knuckles trembled. “Damn you, Kurogiri! You _promised..._ ”

“Looking to go somewhere?” cried Ori. He wiped his bloody lip, but there was a triumphant smile across Uraraka's face he wore.

“Eh, heh, heh, sorry, kiddos-” The troll-man coughed. Slowly, heavily and with shaken steps he swing back towards Ori. “-but I do suppose it's time to leave...”

Suddenly he reached out his enormous arm and dove for Ori with a grabbing motion.

Equally suddenly, Ori... rolled aside?

“Believe what you will,” he shouted. “But we sons of Durin _do_ have experience dealing with trolls like you!”

He had ducked just under those enormous, muscular arms, and now was well behind the troll-man; and threw a riposte at the troll-man's lower calf. The broken chair went _smack_ against the back of the villain's leg. Granted, the blow didn't do all that much, but it did draw out a yelp and a jerk from a giant.

“Y-you crazy girl!”

More like crazy dwarf, but other than that Bilbo would concur. Ori had _always_ been a little not quite right in the head by both dwarven and respectable hobbit standard alike. Whether or not Uraraka's body and quirk had added to it was anyone's guess.

“Fear the might of dwarves!” he hollered, and was about to go for another charge... when finally, finally, the villain took a step back, and inched towards the doorway. Having decided that fighting these weird children who were heroes-in-training wasn't worth it, perhaps?

Then without a word, the troll-man turned about. The thought of breaking through the front door was probably still fresh in his mind when the classroom door _burst_ open inwards.

A swarm of hobbit-sized robots poured into the room: dozens upon dozens of little things made of iron and steel and blinking lights on wheels. But it was their demeanour that made them sound more like a group of children, chanting “ _arrest the villain_ ” and “ _neutralize the criminal_ ” all the way. It was all the villain could do to jump backward just before he was buried neck-deep in fun-sized robots.

The last robot of the horde made no funny sound. It did, however, made a pose, then pronounced a coherent, yet no less funny, _announcement_.

“My apologies, students!” bellowed the loudspeaker embedded on its chest. “Here's your Principal speaking! Everything is now under control!”

Ori glanced at Bilbo. “P-principal?”

Bilbo shuddered. “Will explain later, my dear sir!” he mouthed silently

Meanwhile the rest of the robot-army had surrounded the villain. Their pincer-hands crackled with electricity.

It was not over – at least for the villain. He roared like a beast wounded; down he hunched and braced himself. Off he went, charging into the mass of robots like a raging oliphaunt. The floor smoked. Bilbo smelled burnt rubber in the air.

There was a cacophony of smashes and crashes.The small army of robots never stood a chance. Their zappers _broke_ like twigs. They tumbled through the air like pebbles in a storm. Then they fell in heaps on the ground, clattering and shattering, like broken bricks.

The loudspeaker-bot was unfazed. Mostly.

“Oh dear,” it said. “Looks like I underestimated you a mite.” There was a sound suspiciously like a throat-clearing. “Dear student, it would be... good, if you run. Right now! The way behind me should be clear!”

The villain growled. “Not going to happen, you bolt-bucket!” he cried, and now dove towards the closest thing in his vicinity he could harm – which happened to be Bilbo himself.

Bilbo did the only thing he could do. He dove out of the villain's way and rolled towards the window. Not stopping for a breath, he grabbed the nearest chair as he sprang up, and _hurled_ it through the glass. The crash was deafening – and so, so unseemly of a gentle-hobbit.

_Necessary vandalism._

“All Might!” he hollered out of the hole at the top of his voice. “We're up here!”

Down below, All Might stopped. And looked up. “Young Midoriya!”

Their eyes met. Bilbo exhaled in relief.

In hindsight, that was the _fifth_ error the otherwise most impeccable Mister Bilbo Baggins had committed in the space of perhaps half an hour...

***

Ochako had never been an argumentative sort.

Not, particularly, unless there was something worth arguing over. Whether or not to save what was undeniably a victim from certain death had _never_ been among those things. The question had never been 'should we', but 'how fast'. Again, until today.

Part of her, that part still true to being _heroic_ , was rightly appalled. _What am I doing?_

The real reason for her uncharacteristic stubbornness, of course, was a sudden realization: _The creature was the pretty ring's previous owner_. She did not know _why_ she knew, just that she _knew_ , and it was a malice-rousing sort of knowledge drowning out any protest citing 'heroism'.

No, something inside nudged at her, calling this _thing_ an _owner_ was a bit misleading. This beautiful, beautiful thing doesn't accept _it_ as an owner. Nobody deserved to hold it, and especially not the misshapen, wretched, dirty, smelly, despicable thing lying there! Nobody deserved the rig's matchless splendor... nobody but herself. Nobody but Uraraka Ochako.

_There can only be one to claim the Ring. And it certainly isn't that creature. Right? Right?_

But that was not the very worst thought that arose, from those parts of Ochako too dark and evil to acknowledge.

_He should just vanish. Shouldn't he? Shouldn't he?_

But there it was, a cancer upon her innocence, festering and oozing like a gangrenous wound. Such thoughts swirled and bubbled inside Ochako's mind. The question of _what_ she was even doing or _why_ she was doing it rose like great wave in a storm.

When Ochako came to, she was standing next to the torture rack, looking straight down at the creature's form. Her hands felt the grimy texture, rusty and sweaty, of a carving knife now firmly held in her balled fist. When had she picked it up? No matter. It was sharp and jagged. _A knife_. _Sharp and sweet_. _Is good_.

Her consciousness snapped back, and Ochako felt like screaming out in horror at herself.

_No! What... what am I doing?_

She didn't scream. She couldn't scream. Stars were flashing in her eyes. Hammers were ringing in her head. A sort of thirst and hunger was taking hold, and yearning was blazing deep inside her. 

_Actually, yes._

The 'blade' trembled in her hands. All she needed to do was to raise it, raise it, _raise_ it. And thrust. _And there you have it._

But then _Deku_ just _had_ to jump into her path. He'd cut the wretched, dark thing from the rack, and – because he was _Deku –_ seemed all but determined to carry it out with him.

And there it was, her other voice, dark and sultry and mesmerizing. _Well, looks like there's only one thing to do now, isn't there?_

Her hand wrapped tighter around the rusty, slimy blade. _No!_

_Yes._

The tremble in her hand spread and coursed through her body.

_Are you even a hero, Uraraka Ochako?_

_Yes. Yes you are._

_So?_ Ochako bit down on her lip and tasted iron. _Let's be done with it._

Her eyes went dull. _Yes. Yes you're right._ And then went animate again. _Let's be done with it._

She closed her eyes once more.

_Stab._

_Splash._

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes and fanon:
> 
> \- Given the fact that Toga Himiko exists, the idea of Ochako going a little knife-nut is quite... amusing.
> 
> \- Glorfindel's company: I'm taking this from Third Age Total War. In one of its submods, Glorfindel gets his own company of bodyguards: Reincarnations of the House of Golden Flower.
> 
> \- The chapter title refers more to Ochako than Izuku. Thanks to Kobasolo's very excellent cover, I've been associating Peace Sign with Ochako more than Izuku. This chapter, as it happens, is all about Ochako – or at least, the Middle-earth segment is.
> 
> \- Drama dictates something should happen to Shouto for, well, acting on impulse in the last chapter. Now the Sports Festival arc is going to go wildly off the rail too!


End file.
